Time of Contempt

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  There’s an astonishing abundance of beavers here, thought the poet. And no small wonder. No one bothers those bloody tree-chewers. Neither robbers, hunters nor forest beekeepers venture into this region; not even those interfering fur trappers would dare set their snares here. The ones who tried would have got an arrow through the throat, and the crayfish would have nibbled on them in the ooze by the riverbank. And I, the idiot, am forcing my way out here of my own free will; here, by the Ribbon, over which hangs a cadaverous stench, a stench which even the scent of sweet flag and mint cannot mask . . .

  He sighed heavily.

  Pegasus slowly planted his forelegs into the water, lowered his muzzle towards the surface, drank long, and then turned his head and looked at Dandelion. The water dripped from his muzzle and nostrils. The poet nodded, sighed once more and sniffed loudly.

  ‘The hero gazed on the maelstrom,’ he quietly declaimed, trying not to let his teeth chatter. ‘He gazed on it and travelled on, for his heart knew not trepidation.’

  Pegasus lowered his head and ears.

  ‘Knew not trepidation, I said.’

  Pegasus shook his head, jingling the rings on his reins and bit. Dandelion dug a heel into his side. The gelding entered the water with pompous resignation.

  The Ribbon was shallow but very overgrown. Before they had reached the centre of the current, Pegasus was dragging long plaits of waterweed. The horse walked slowly and with effort, trying to shake the annoying pondweed off with every step.

  The rushes and alders of the far bank were close. So close that Dandelion felt his stomach sinking low, very low, right down to the saddle itself. He knew that in the centre of the river, entangled in the waterweed, he was an excellent target; a sitting duck. In his mind’s eye he could already see bows bending, bowstrings being pulled back and sharp arrowheads being aimed at him.

  He squeezed the horse’s sides with his calves, but Pegasus was having none of it. Instead of picking up speed, he stopped and lifted his tail. Balls of dung splashed into the water. Dandelion gave a long groan.

  ‘The hero,’ he muttered, closing his eyes, ‘was unable to cross the raging rapids. He fell in action, pierced by many missiles. He was hidden for ages long in the azure depths, rocked by jade-green algae. All traces of him vanished. Only horse shit remained, borne by the current to the distant sea . . .’

  Pegasus, clearly relieved, headed jauntily towards the bank without any encouragement, and when he reached the bank, and was finally free of waterweed, even took the liberty of breaking into a canter, utterly soaking Dandelion’s trousers and boots. The poet didn’t notice it, though, since the vision of arrows aimed at his belly hadn’t left him for a moment, and dread crept down his neck and back like a huge, cold, slimy leech. For beyond the alders, less than a hundred paces away, beyond the vivid green band of riverside grass, rose up a vertical, black, menacing wall of trees.

  It was Brokilon.

  On the bank, a few steps downstream, lay the white skeleton of a horse. Nettles and bulrushes had grown through its ribcage. Some other – smaller – bones, which didn’t come from a horse, were also lying there. Dandelion shuddered and looked away.

  Squelching and splashing, the gelding, urged on by Dandelion, hauled himself out of the riverside swamp, the mud smelling unpleasantly. The frogs stopped croaking for a moment. It all went very quiet. Dandelion closed his eyes. He stopped declaiming and improvising. His inspiration and daring had evaporated. Only cold, revolting fear remained; an intense sensation, but one utterly bereft of creative impulses.

  Pegasus perked up his floppy ears and dispassionately shambled towards the Forest of the Dryads. Called by many the Forest of Death.

  I’ve crossed the border, thought the poet. Now it will all be settled. While I was by the river and in the water, they could be magnanimous. But not now. Now I’m an intruder. Just like that one . . . I might end up a skeleton, too; a warning for people to heed . . . If there are dryads here at all. If they’re watching me . . .

  He recalled watching shooting tournaments, competitions and archery displays at country markets. Straw targets and mannequins, studded or torn apart by arrowheads. What does a man feel when he’s hit by an arrow? The impact? Pain? Or perhaps . . . nothing?

  There were either no dryads nearby, or they hadn’t made up their minds what to do with this lone rider, because the poet rode up to the forest petrified with fear but in one piece. Entry to the trees was barred by a dense tangle of scrub and fallen trunks, bristling with roots and branches, but in any case Dandelion didn’t have the slightest intention of riding up to the very edge, much less of heading deeper into the forest. He was capable of making himself take risks – but not of committing suicide.

  He dismounted very slowly and fastened the reins to a protruding root. He didn’t usually do that; Pegasus wasn’t inclined to wander away from his master. Dandelion was not certain, however, how the horse would react to the whistle and whir of arrows. Up until now he had tried not to expose either Pegasus or himself to sounds of that kind.

  He removed a lute from the saddle’s pommel. It was a unique, magnificent instrument with a slender neck. This was a present from a she-elf, he recalled, stroking the inlaid wood. It might end up returning to the Elder Folk . . . Unless the dryads leave it by my dead body . . .

  Close by lay an old tree, blown down in a gale. The poet sat down on the trunk, rested the lute on his knee, licked his lips and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

  The day was drawing to a close. A haze rose from the Ribbon, forming a grey-white shroud enveloping the meadows. It was cooler now. The honking of cranes sounded and died away, leaving only the croaking of frogs.

  Dandelion plucked the strings. Once, then twice, then a third time. He twisted the pegs, tuned the lute and began to play. And a moment later, to sing.

  Yviss, m’evelienn vente cáelm en tell

  Elaine Ettariel Aep cór me lode deith ess’viell

  Yn blath que me darienn

  Aen minne vain tegen a me

  Yn toin av muirednn que dis eveigh e aep llea . . .

  The sun vanished behind the trees. It immediately became dark in the shade of Brokilon’s mighty trees.

  Ueassan Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell,

  Elaine Ettariel,

  Aep cor . . .

  He didn’t hear – but he felt – somebody’s presence.

  ‘N’te mirę daetre. Sh’aente vort.’

  ‘Don’t shoot . . .’ he whispered, obediently not looking around. ‘N’aen aespar a me . . . I come in peace . . .’

  ‘N’ess a tearth. Sh’aente.’

  He obeyed, although his fingers had turned cold and numb on the strings, and he had difficulty making any sound whatsoever emerge from his throat. But there was no hostility in the dryad’s voice and he was a professional, dammit.

  Ueassan Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell,

  Elaine Ettariel,

  Aep cor aen tedd teviel e gwen

  Yn blath que me darienn

  Ess yn e evellien a me

  Que shaent te cáelm a’vean minne me striscea . . .

  This time he took the liberty of glancing over his shoulder. Whatever was crouching by the tree trunk, very near, resembled a bush entwined in ivy. But it wasn’t a bush. Bushes didn’t have such large, shining eyes.

  Pegasus snorted softly, and Dandelion knew that behind him in the darkness someone was stroking his horse’s muzzle.

  ‘Sh’aente vort,’ requested the dryad squatting behind him once again. Her voice was like the pattering of rain on leaves.

  ‘I . . .’ he began. ‘I am . . . The comrade of the witcher Geralt . . . I know that Geralt— That Gwynbleidd is among you in Brokilon. I have come . . .’

  ‘N’te dice’en. Sh’aente, va.’

  ‘Sh’aent,’ gently asked a second dryad from behind him, virtually in unison with a third. And maybe a fourth. He couldn’t be certain.

  ‘Yea, sh’aente, taedh,’ said the thing tha
t a moment earlier the poet had taken to be a birch sapling standing a few paces in front of him, in a silvery, girlish voice. ‘Ess’laine . . . Taedh . . . Sing . . . Sing some more about Ettariel . . . Yes?’

  He did as she asked.

  To adore you, is all my life

  Fair Ettariel

  Let me keep, then, the treasure of memories

  And the magical flower;

  A pledge and sign of your love.

  Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears . . .

  This time he heard steps approaching.

  ‘Dandelion.’

  ‘Geralt!’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. You can stop that racket now.’

  ‘How did you find me? How did you know I was in Brokilon?’

  ‘Triss Merigold . . . Bloody hell . . .’ said Dandelion. He tripped again and would have fallen, had a passing dryad not seized him in a dextrous and astonishingly powerful grip for one so slight.

  ‘Gar’ean, táedh,’ she warned in silver tones. ‘Va cáelm.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s awfully dark here . . . Geralt? Where are you?’

  ‘Here. Don’t lag behind.’

  Dandelion quickened his pace, stumbled once more and almost fell on the Witcher, who had stopped in the dark in front of him. The dryads passed by them silently.

  ‘It’s hellishly dark . . . Is it much further?’

  ‘No. We’ll soon be at the camp. Who, apart from Triss, knows I’m hiding here? Did you let it slip to anyone?’

  ‘I had to tell King Venzlav. I needed safe conduct through Brugge. You wouldn’t believe the times we live in . . . I also had to have permission for the expedition to Brokilon. But anyway, Venzlav knows you and likes you . . . He appointed me an envoy. Just imagine. I’m sure he’ll keep it secret, I asked him to. Don’t get annoyed now, Geralt . . .’

  The Witcher came closer. Dandelion couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the white hair and bristles of several days’ beard growth, which was visible even in the dark.

  ‘I’m not annoyed,’ said the Witcher, placing his hand on Dandelion’s shoulder. It seemed as though his voice, which up until then had been cold, was somewhat changed. ‘I’m glad you’re here, you whoreson.’

  ‘It’s so cold here,’ said Dandelion, shuddering and making the branches they were sitting on creak under him. ‘We could get a fire going—’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ muttered the Witcher. ‘Have you forgotten where you are?’

  ‘Are you serious . . . ?’ The troubadour glanced around timidly. ‘Oh. No fire, right?’

  ‘Trees hate fire. And they do too.’

  ‘Dammit. Are we going to sit here and freeze? And in the bloody dark? I can’t see my hand in front of my face . . .’

  ‘Keep it by your side then.’

  Dandelion sighed, hunched forward and rubbed his arms. He heard the Witcher beside him breaking some thin twigs in his fingers.

  A small green light suddenly flared up in the dark, first of all dim and faint, then quickly becoming brighter. After the first one, many others began to glimmer around them, moving and dancing like fireflies or will-o’-the-wisps above a marsh. The forest suddenly came to life with a shimmering of shadows, and Dandelion began to see the silhouettes of the dryads surrounding them. One of them approached and put something on the ground near them, which looked like a hot, glowing tangle of plants. The poet reached a hand out carefully and took hold of it. The green glow was totally cold.

  ‘What is it, Geralt?’

  ‘Rotten wood and a special kind of moss. It only grows here in Brokilon. And only they know how to weave it all together to make it give off light. Thank you, Fauve.’

  The dryad did not answer, but neither did she go away, remaining squatting alongside the pair. She had a garland on her brow, and her long hair fell to her shoulders. Her hair looked green in the light and may actually have been green. Dandelion knew that dryads’ hair could be of the weirdest colours.

  ‘Taedh,’ she said melodically, raising her flashing eyes to the troubadour. Her fine-featured face was crossed diagonally by two parallel dark stripes of painted camouflage. ‘Ess’ve vort shaente aen Ettariel? Shaente a’vean vort?’

  ‘No . . . Later perhaps,’ he answered politely, carefully searching for words in the Elder Speech. The dryad sighed and leaned over, gently stroking the neck of the lute, which was lying nearby. She rose nimbly to her feet. Dandelion watched her as she disappeared into the forest towards the others, whose shadows showed faintly in the dim light of the small green lanterns.

  ‘I trust I didn’t offend her, did I?’ he asked softly. ‘They have their own dialect, and I don’t know polite expressions . . .’

  ‘Check whether you’ve got a knife in your guts,’ said the Witcher, with neither mockery nor humour in his voice. ‘Dryads react to insults by sticking a knife in your belly. Don’t worry, Dandelion. I’d say they’re willing to forgive you a good deal more than slips of the tongue. The concert you gave at the edge of the forest was clearly to their liking. Now you’re ard táedh, “the great bard”. They’re waiting for the next part of ‘The Flower of Ettariel’. Do you know the rest? It’s not your ballad, after all.’

  ‘It’s my translation. I also embellished it somewhat with elven music. Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘As I thought. Fortunately, dryads are more receptive to art. I read somewhere that they’re exceptionally musical. Which is why I came up with my cunning plan. For which, incidentally, you haven’t yet praised me.’

  ‘My congratulations,’ said the Witcher after a moment’s silence. ‘It was indeed cunning. And fortune smiled on you, as usual. They shoot accurately at two hundred paces. They don’t usually wait until someone crosses onto their bank of the river and begins to sing. They are very sensitive to unpleasant smells. So when the corpse falls into the Ribbon and gets carried away by the current, they don’t have to put up with the stench.’

  ‘Oh, whatever,’ said the poet, clearing his throat and swallowing. ‘The most important thing is I pulled it off and found you. Geralt, how did you . . .’

  ‘Do you have a razor?’

  ‘Eh? Of course I do.’

  ‘Lend it to me tomorrow morning. This beard of mine is driving me insane.’

  ‘Didn’t the dryads have any? Hmm . . . I guess not, they don’t have much need for them, do they? Of course, I’ll lend it to you. Geralt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t have any grub with me. Should ard táedh, the great bard, hold out any hopes of supper when visiting dryads?’

  ‘They don’t eat supper. Never. And the guards on Brokilon’s border don’t eat breakfast either. You’ll have to survive until noon. I’ve already got used to it.’

  ‘But when we get to their capital, the famous, Duen Canell, concealed in the very heart of the forest . . .’

  ‘We’ll never get there, Dandelion.’

  ‘What? I thought . . . But you— I mean they’ve given you sanctuary. After all . . . they tolerate . . .’

  ‘You’ve chosen the right word.’

  They both said nothing for a long time.

  ‘War,’ said the poet finally. ‘War, hatred and contempt. Everywhere. In everyone’s hearts.’

  ‘You’re being poetic.’

  ‘But that’s what it’s like.’

  ‘Precisely. Right, tell me your news. Tell me what’s been happening in the world while they’ve been tending to me here.’

  ‘First,’ said Dandelion, coughing softly, ‘tell me what really happened in Garstang.’

  ‘Didn’t Triss tell you?’

  ‘Yes, she did. But I’d like to hear your version.’

  ‘If you know Triss’s version, you know a more complete and probably more faithful version already. Tell me what’s happened since I’ve been here.’

  ‘Geralt,’ whispered Dandelion. ‘I don’t know what happened to Yennefer and Ciri . . . No one does. Triss doesn’t either . . .�
��

  The Witcher shifted suddenly, making the branches creak.

  ‘Did I ask you about Ciri or Yennefer?’ he said in a different voice. ‘Tell me about the war.’

  ‘Don’t you know anything? Hasn’t any news reached you here?’

  ‘Yes, it has. But I want to hear everything from you. Speak, please.’

  ‘The Nilfgaardians,’ began the bard after a moment’s silence, ‘attacked Lyria and Aedirn. Without declaring war. The reason was supposedly an attack by Demavend’s forces on some border fort in Dol Angra, which happened during the mages’ conclave on Thanedd. Some people say it was a setup. That they were Nilfgaardians disguised as Demavend’s soldiers. We’ll probably never find out what really happened. In any case, Nilfgaard’s retaliation was swift and overwhelming; the border was crossed by a powerful army, which must have been concentrated in Dol Angra for weeks, if not months. Spalla and Scala, the two Lyrian border strongholds, were captured right away, in just three days. Rivia was prepared for a siege lasting months but capitulated after two days under the pressure of the guilds and the merchants who were promised that, should the town open its gates and pay a ransom, it wouldn’t be sacked . . .’

  ‘Was the promise kept?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The Witcher’s voice changed again a little. ‘Promises being kept in these times? I won’t mention that, in the past, no one would have dreamed of making promises like that, because no one would have expected them. Craftsmen and merchants never opened the gates of strongholds, they defended them; each guild had its own tower or machicolations.’

  ‘Money has no fatherland, Geralt. The merchants don’t care whose rule they make their money under. And the Nilfgaardian palatine doesn’t care who he levies taxes on. Dead merchants don’t make money or pay taxes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘After the capitulation of Rivia the Nilfgaardian Army headed northwards at great speed, almost without encountering any resistance. The armies of Demavend and Meve withdrew, unable to form a front in the deciding battle. The Nilfgaardians reached Aldersberg. In order to prevent the stronghold being blockaded, Demavend and Meve decided to join battle. The positions of their armies could have been better . . . Bugger it, if there were more light here I’d draw you—’