Blood of Elves

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  “Myrhman,” he said quietly, “believe me or don’t – as you like. But if you don’t immediately tell me where Rience is… If you don’t immediately reveal how you contact him… Then I will feed you, piece by piece, to the eels in the canal. Starting with your ears.”

  There was something in the white-haired man’s voice which made the charlatan believe his every word. He stared at the stiletto blade and knew that it was sharper than the knives with which he punctured ulcers and boils. He started to shake so hard that the boot resting on his chest bounced nervously. But he did not say anything. He could not say anything. Not for the time being. Because if Rience were to return and ask why he had betrayed him, Myhrman would have to be able to show him why. One ear, he thought, one ear I have to endure. Then I’ll tell him…

  “Why waste time and mess about with blood?” A woman’s soft alto suddenly resounded from the semi-darkness. “Why risk him twisting the truth and lying? Allow me to take care of him my way. He’ll talk so fast he’ll bite his own tongue. Hold him down.”

  The charlatan howled and struggled against his fetters but the white-haired man crushed him to the floor with his knee, grabbed him by the hair and twisted his head. Someone knelt down next to them. He smelled perfume and wet bird feathers, felt the touch of fingers on his temple. He wanted to scream but terror choked him – all he managed was a croak.

  “You want to scream already?” The soft alto right next to his ear purred like a cat. “Too soon, Myhrman, too soon. I haven’t started yet. But I will in a moment. If evolution has traced any groove at all in your brain then I’m going to plough it somewhat deeper. And then you’ll see what a scream can really be.”

  “And so,” said Vilgefortz, having heard the report, “our kings have started to think independently. They have started to plan independently, in an amazingly short time evolving from thinking on a tactical level to a strategic one? Interesting. Not so long ago – at Sodden – all they could do was gallop around with savage cries and swords raised at the van of their company without even looking around to check their company hadn’t by chance been left behind, or wasn’t galloping in an entirely different direction. And today, there they are – in Hagge Castle – deciding the fate of the world. Interesting. But to be honest, I expected as much.”

  “We know,” confirmed Artaud Terranova. “And we remember, you warned us about it. That’s why we’re telling you about it.”

  “Thank you for remembering,” smiled the wizard, and Tissaia de Vries was suddenly sure that he had already been aware of each of the facts just presented to him, and had been for a long time. She did not say a word. Sitting upright in her armchair, she evened up her lace cuffs as the left fell a little differently from the right. She felt Terranova’s unfavourable gaze and Vilgefortz’s amused eyes on her. She knew that her legendary pedantry either annoyed or amused everybody. But she did not care in the least.

  “What does the Chapter say to all this?”

  “First of all,” retorted Terranova, “we would like to hear your opinion, Vilgefortz.”

  “First of all,” smiled the wizard, “let us have something to eat and drink. We have enough time – allow me to prove myself a good host. I can see you are frozen through and tired from your journeys. How many changes of portals, if I may ask?”

  “Three.” Tissaia de Vries shrugged.

  “It was nearer for me,” added Artaud. “Two proved enough. But still complicated, I must admit.”

  “Such foul weather everywhere?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “So let us fortify ourselves with good fare and an old red wine from Cidaris. Lydia, would you be so kind?”

  Lydia van Bredevoort, Vilgefortz’s assistant and personal secretary, appeared from behind the curtain like an ethereal phantom and smiled with her eyes at Tissaia de Vries. Tissaia, controlling her face, replied with a pleasant smile and bow of her head. Artaud Terranova stood up and bowed with reverence. He, too, controlled his expression very well. He knew Lydia.

  Two servants, bustling around and rustling their skirts, swiftly laid out the tableware, plates and platters. Lydia van Bredevoort, delicately conjuring up a tiny flame between her thumb and index finger, lit the candles in the candelabras. Tissaia saw traces of oil paint on her hand. She filed it in her memory so later, after supper, she could ask the young enchantress to show her her latest work. Lydia was a talented artist.

  They supped in silence. Artaud Terranova did not stint himself and reached without embarrassment for the platters and – probably a little too frequently, and without his host’s encouragement – clanged the silver top of the carafe of red wine. Tissaia de Vries ate slowly, devoting more attention to arranging her plates, cutlery and napkins symmetrically – although, in her opinion, they still lay irregularly and hurt her predilection for order and her aesthetic sensibility – than to the fare. She drank sparingly. Vilgefortz ate and drank even more sparingly. Lydia, of course, did not drink or eat at all.

  The candle flames undulated in long red and golden whiskers of fire. Drops of rain tinkled against the stained glass of the windows.

  “Well, Vilgefortz,” said Terranova finally, rummaging in a platter with his fork in search of an adequately fatty piece of game. “What is your position regarding our monarchs’ behaviour? Hen Gedymdeith and Francesca sent us here because they want to know your opinion. Tissaia and I are also interested. The Chapter wants to assume a unanimous stand in this matter. And, should it come to action, we also want to act unanimously. So what do you advise?”

  “It flatters me greatly” – with a gesture, Vilgefortz thanked Lydia, who was offering to put more broccoli on his plate – “that my opinion in this matter should be decisive for the Chapter.”

  “No one said that.” Artaud poured himself some more wine. “We’re going to make a collective decision anyway, when the Chapter meets. But we wish to let everybody have the opportunity to express themselves beforehand so we can have an idea of all the various views. We’re listening, therefore.”

  If we’ve finished supping, let us go through into the workshop, Lydia proposed telepathically, smiling with her eyes. Terranova looked at her smile and quickly downed what he had in his chalice. To the dregs.

  “Good idea.” Vilgefortz wiped his fingers on a napkin. “We’ll be more comfortable there. My protection against magical eavesdropping is stronger there, too. Let us go. You can bring the carafe, Artaud.”

  “I won’t say no. It’s my favourite vintage.”

  They went through to the workshop. Tissaia could not stop herself from casting an eye over the workbench weighed down with retorts, crucibles, test-tubes, crystals and numerous magical utensils. All were enveloped in a screening spell, but Tissaia de Vries was an Archmage – there was no screen she could not penetrate. And she was a little curious as to what the mage had been doing of late. She worked out the configuration of the recently used apparatus in a flash. It served for the detection of persons who had disappeared while enabling a psychic vision by means of the “crystal, metal, stone” method. The wizard was either searching for someone or resolving a theoretical, logistical problem. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen was well known for his love of solving such problems.

  They sat down in carved ebony armchairs. Lydia glanced at Vilgefortz, caught the sign transmitted by his eye and immediately left. Tissaia sighed imperceptibly.

  Everyone knew that Lydia van Bredevoort was in love with Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, that she had loved him for years with a silent, relentless and stubborn love. The wizard, it is to be understood, also knew about this but pretended not to. Lydia made it easier for him by never betraying her feelings to him – she never took the slightest step or made the slightest gesture, transmitted no sign by thought and, even if she could speak, would never have said a word. She was too proud. Vilgefortz, too, did nothing because he did not love Lydia. He could, of course, simply have have made her his lover, tied her to him even more strongly and, who knows, maybe even made her hap
py. There were those who advised him to do so. But Vilgefortz did not. He was too proud and too much a man of principle. The situation, therefore, was hopeless but stable, and this patently satisfied them both.

  “So.” The young wizard broke the silence. “The Chapter are racking their brains about what to do about the initiatives and plans of our kings? Quite unnecessarily. Their plans must simply be ignored.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Artaud Terranova froze with the chalice in his left hand, the carafe in his right. “Did I understand you correctly? We are to do nothing? We’re to let—”

  “We already have,” interrupted Vilgefortz. “Because no one asked us for our permission. And no one will. I repeat, we ought to pretend that we know nothing. That is the only rational thing to do.”

  “The things they have thought up threaten war, and on a grand scale at that.”

  “The things they have thought up have been made known to us thanks to enigmatic and incomplete information, which comes from a mysterious and highly dubious source. So dubious that the word ‘disinformation’ stubbornly comes to mind. And even if it were true, their designs are still at the planning stage and will remain so for a long while yet. And if they move beyond that stage… Well, then we will act accordingly.”

  “You mean to say,” Terranova screwed up his face, “we will dance to the tune they play?”

  “Yes, Artaud.” Vilgefortz looked at him and his eyes flashed. “You will dance to the tune they play. Or you will take leave of the dance-floor. Because the orchestra’s podium is too high for you to climb up there and tell the musicians to play some other tune. Realise that at last. If you think another solution is possible, you are making a mistake. You mistake the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.”

  The Chapter will do as he says, disguising his order as advice, thought Tissaia de Vries. We are all pawns on his chess board. He’s moved up, grown, obscured us with his brightness, subordinated us to him. We’re pawns in his game. A game the rules of which we do not know.

  Her left cuff had once again arranged itself differently from the right. The enchantress adjusted it with care.

  “The kings’ plans are already at the stage of practical realisation,” she said slowly. “In Kaedwen and Aedirn an offensive against the Scoia’tael has begun. The blood of young elves is flowing. It is reaching the point of persecution and pogroms against non-humans. There is talk of an attack on the free elves of Dol Blathanna and the Grey Mountains. This is mass murder. Are we to say to Gedymdeith and Enid Findabair that you advise us to stand idly by, to watch and do nothing? Pretending we can’t see anything?”

  Vilgefortz turned his head towards her. Now you’re going to change tactics, thought Tissaia. You’re a player, you can hear which way the dice roll on the table. You’re going to change tactics. You’re going to strike a different note.

  Vilgefortz did not lower his eyes from hers.

  “You are right,” he said curtly. “You are right, Tissaia. War with Nilfgaard is one thing but we must not look on idly at the massacre of non-humans and do nothing. I suggest we call a convention, a general convention of everyone up to and including Masters of the Third Degree, including those who have been sitting on royal councils since Sodden. At the convention we will make them see reason and order them to keep their monarchs in check.”

  “I second this proposition,” said Terranova. “Let us call a convention and remind them to whom they owe first loyalty. Note that even some members of our Council now advise kings. The kings are served by Carduin, Philippa Eilhart, Fercart, Radcliffe, Yennefer—”

  At the last name Vilgefortz twitched internally. But Tissaia de Vries was an Archmage. Tissaia sensed the thought, the impulse leaping from the workbench and magical apparatus to the two volumes lying on the table. Both books were invisible, enveloped in magic. The magician focused herself and penetrated the screen.

  Aen Ithlinnespeath, the prophecy foretold by Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien, the elven seeress. The prophecy of the end of civilisation, the prophecy of annihilation, destruction and the return of barbarianism which are to come with the masses of ice pressing down from the borders of the eternal freeze. And the other book… Very old… Falling apart… Aen Hen Ichaer… The Elder Blood… The Blood of Elves?

  “Tissaia? And what do you think?”

  “I second it.” The enchantress adjusted her ring which had turned the wrong way round. “I second Vilgefortz’s plan. Let us call a convention. As soon as possible.”

  Metal, stone, crystal, she thought. Are you looking for Yennefer? Why? And what does she have to do with Ithlin’s prophecy? Or with the Elder Blood of the Elves? What are you brewing, Vilgefortz?

  I’m sorry, said Lydia van Bredevoort telepathically, coming in without a sound. The wizard stood up.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “but this is urgent. I’ve been waiting for this letter since yesterday. It will only take a minute.”

  Artaud yawned, muffled a belch and reached for the carafe. Tissaia looked at Lydia. Lydia smiled. With her eyes. She could not do so any other way.

  The lower half of Lydia van Bredevoort’s face was an illusion.

  Four years ago, on Vilgefortz’s – her master’s – recommendation, Lydia had taken part in experiments concerning the properties of an artefact found amongst the excavations of an ancient necropolis. The artefact turned out to be cursed. It activated only once. Of the five wizards taking part in the experiment, three died on the spot. The fourth lost his eyes, both hands and went mad. Lydia escaped with burns, a mangled jaw and a mutation of the larynx and throat which, to this day, effectively resisted all efforts at regeneration. A powerful illusion was therefore drawn so that people did not faint at the sight of Lydia’s face. It was a very strong, very efficiently placed illusion, difficult for even the Chosen Ones to penetrate.

  “Hmm…” Vilgefortz put the letter aside. “Thank you, Lydia.”

  Lydia smiled. The messenger is waiting for a reply, she said.

  “There will be no reply.”

  I understand. I have given orders to prepare chambers for your guests.

  “Thank you. Tissaia, Artaud, I apologise for the short delay. Let us continue. Where were we?”

  Nowhere, thought Tissaia de Vries. But I’m listening carefully to you. Because at some stage you’ll finally mention the thing which really interests you.

  “Ah,” began Vilgefortz slowly. “Now I know what I wanted to say. I’m thinking about those members of the Council who have had the least experience. Fercart and Yennefer. Fercart, as far as I know, is tied to Foltest of Temeria and sits on the king’s council with Triss Merigold. But who is Yennefer tied to? You said, Artaud, that she is one of those who are serving kings.”

  “Artaud exaggerated,” said Tissaia calmly. “Yennefer is living in Vengerberg so Demawend sometimes turns to her for help, but they do not work together all the time. It cannot be said for certain that she is serving Demawend.”

  “How is her sight? Everything is all right, I hope?”

  “Yes. Everything’s all right.”

  “Good. Very good. I was worried… You know, I wanted to contact her but it turned out she had left. No one knew where for.”

  Stone, metal, crystal, thought Tissaia de Vries. “Everything that Yennefer wears is active and cannot be detected using psychic visions. You won’t find her that way, my dear. If Yennefer does not wish anyone to know where she is, no one will find out.

  “Write to her,” she said calmly, straightening out her cuffs. “And send the letter in the ordinary way. It will get there without fail. And Yennefer, wherever she is, will reply. She always does.”

  “Yennefer,” threw in Artaud, “frequently disappears, sometimes for entire months. The reasons tend to be quite trivial…”

  Tissaia looked at him, pursing her lips. The wizard fell silent. Vilgefortz smiled faintly.

  “Precisely,” he said. “That is just what I thought. At one time she was closel
y tied to… a certain witcher. Geralt, if I’m not mistaken. It seems it wasn’t just an ordinary passing affair. It appeared Yennefer was quite strongly involved…”

  Tissaia de Vries sat up straight and gripped the armrests of her chair.

  “Why are you asking about that? They’re personal matters. It is none of our business.”

  “Of course.” Vilgefortz glanced at the letter lying discarded on the pulpit. “It is none of our business. But I’m not being guided by unhealthy curiosity but concern about the emotional state of a member of the Council. I am wondering about Yennefer’s reaction to the news of… of Geralt’s death. I presume she would get over it, come to terms with it, without falling into a depression or exaggerated mourning?”

  “No doubt, she would,” said Tissaia coldly. “Especially as such news has been reaching her every now and again – and always proving to be a rumour.”

  “That’s right,” confirmed Terranova. “This Geralt, or whatever he’s called, knows how to fend for himself. And why be surprised? He is a mutant, a murdering machine, programmed to kill and not let himself be killed. And as for Yennefer, let us not exaggerate her alleged emotions. We know her. She does not give in to emotions. She toyed with the witcher, that’s all. She was fascinated with death, which this character constantly courts. And when he finally brings it onto himself, that will be the end of it.”

  “For the time being,” remarked Tissaia de Vries dryly, “the witcher is alive.”

  Vilgefortz smiled and once more glanced at the letter lying in front of him.

  “Is that so?” he said. “I don’t think so.”

  Geralt flinched a little and swallowed hard. The initial shock of drinking the elixir had passed and the second stage was beginning to take effect, as indicated by a faint but unpleasant dizziness which accompanied the adaptation of his sight to darkness.

  The adaptation progressed quickly. The deep darkness of the night paled; everything around him started to take on shades of grey, shades which were at first hazy and unclear then increasingly contrasting, distinct and sharp. In the little street leading to the canal bank which, a moment ago, had been as dark as the inside of a tar barrel, Geralt could now make out the rats roaming through the gutters, and sniffing at puddles and gaps in the walls.