‘Eeeee . . . Eeeeek . . . Aiiiieee . . .’
‘Stop moaning! Control yourself! It’s just cramp! It’ll stop in a moment! Fingers wider, extinguish it, give it back, give it back from yourself ! Slower, damn it, or your blood vessels will burst again!’
‘Eeeeeek!’
‘Too abrupt, ugly one, still too abrupt. I know the force is bursting out but you have to learn to control it. You mustn’t allow outbursts like the one a moment ago. If I hadn’t insulated you, you would have caused havoc here. Now, once more. We’re starting right from the beginning. Move and formula.’
‘No! Not again! I can’t!’
‘Breathe slowly and stop shaking. It’s plain hysteria this time, you don’t fool me. Control yourself, concentrate and begin.’
‘No, please, Lady Yennefer . . . It hurts . . . I feel sick . . .’
‘Just no tears, Ciri. There’s no sight more nauseating than a magician crying. Nothing arouses greater pity. Remember that. Never forget that. One more time, from the beginning. Spell and gesture. No, no, this time without copying me. You’re going to do it by yourself. So, use your memory!’
‘Aine verseos . . . Aine aen aenye . . . Oooouuuuch!’
‘No! Too fast!’
Magic, like a spiked iron arrow, lodged in her. Wounded her deeply. Hurt. Hurt with the strange sort of pain oddly associated with bliss.
To relax, they once again ran around the park. Yennefer persuaded Nenneke to take Ciri’s sword out of storage and so enabled the girl to practise her steps, dodges and attacks – in secret, of course, to prevent the other priestesses and novices seeing her. But magic was omnipresent. Ciri learned how – using simple spells and focusing her will – to relax her muscles, combat cramps, control adrenalin, how to master her aural labyrinth and its nerve, how to slow or speed her pulse and how to cope without oxygen for short periods.
The lady magician knew a surprising amount about a witcher’s sword and ‘dance’. She knew a great deal about the secrets of Kaer Morhen; there was no doubt she had visited the Keep. She knew Vesemir and Eskel. Although not Lambert and Coën.
Yennefer used to visit Kaer Morhen. Ciri guessed why – when they spoke of the Keep – the eyes of the enchantress grew warm, lost their angry gleam and their cold, indifferent, wise depth. If the words had befitted Yennefer’s person, Ciri would have called her dreamy, lost in memories.
Ciri could guess the reason.
There was a subject which the girl instinctively and carefully avoided. But one day, she got carried away and spoke out. About Triss Merigold. Yennefer, as if casually, as if indifferently, asking as if banal, sparing questions, dragged the rest from her. Her eyes were hard and impenetrable.
Ciri could guess the reason. And, amazingly, she no longer felt annoyed.
Magic was calming.
*
* ‘The so-called Sign of Aard, Ciri, is a very simple spell belonging to the family of psychokinetic magic which is based on thrusting energy in the required direction. The force of the thrust depends on how the will of the person throwing it is focused and on the expelled force. It can be considerable. The witchers adapted the spell, making use of the fact that it does not require knowledge of a magical formula – concentration and the gesture are enough. That’s why they called it a Sign. Where they got the name from, I don’t know, maybe from the Elder Speech – the word “ard”, as you know, means “mountain”, “upper” or “the highest”. If that is truly the case then the name is very misleading because it’s hard to find an easier psychokinetic spell. We, obviously, aren’t going to waste time and energy on something as primitive as the witchers’ Sign. We are going to practise real psychokinesis. We’ll practise on . . . Ah, on that basket lying under the apple tree. Concentrate.’
‘Ready.’
‘You focus yourself quickly. Let me remind you: control the flow of the force. You can only emit as much as you draw. If you release even a tiny bit more, you do so at the cost of your constitution. An effort like that could render you unconscious and, in extreme circumstances, could even kill you. If, on the other hand, you release everything you draw, you forfeit all possibility of repeating it, and you will have to draw it again and, as you know, it’s not easy to do and it is painful.’
‘Ooooh, I know!’
‘You mustn’t slacken your concentration and allow the energy to tear itself away from you of its own accord. My Mistress used to say that emitting the force must be like blowing a raspberry in a ballroom; do it gently, sparingly, and with control. And in such a way that you don’t let those around you to know it was you. Understood?’
‘Understood!’
‘Straighten yourself up. Stop giggling. Let me remind you that spells are a serious matter. They are cast with grace and pride. The motions are executed fluently but with restraint. With dignity. You do not pull faces, grimace or stick your tongue out. You are handling a force of nature, show Nature some respect.’
‘All right, Lady Yennefer.’
‘Careful, this time I’m not screening you. You are an independent spell-caster. This is your debut, ugly one. You saw that demi-john of wine in the chest of drawers? If your debut is successful, your mistress will drink it tonight.’
‘By herself?’
‘Novices are only allowed to drink wine once they are qualified apprentices. You have to wait. You’re smart, so that just means another ten years or so, not more. Right, let’s start. Arrange your fingers. And the left hand? Don’t wave it around! Let it hang loose or rest it on your hip. Fingers! Good. Right, release.’
‘Aaaah . . .’
‘I didn’t ask you to make funny noises. Emit the energy. In silence.’
‘Haa, ha! It jumped! The basket jumped! Did you see?’
‘It barely twitched. Ciri, sparingly does not mean weakly. Psychokinesis is used with a specific goal in mind. Even witchers use the Sign of Aard to throw their opponent off his feet. The energy you emitted would not knock their hat off their head! Once more, a little stronger. Go for it!’
‘Ha! It certainly flew! It was all right that time, wasn’t it, Lady Yennefer?’
‘Hmmm . . . You’ll run to the kitchen afterwards and pinch a bit of cheese to go with our wine . . . That was almost right. Almost. Stronger still, ugly one, don’t be frightened. Lift the basket from the ground and throw it hard against the wall of that shack, make feathers fly. Don’t slouch! Head up! Gracefully, but with pride! Be bold, be bold! Oh, bloody hell!’
‘Oh, dear . . . I’m sorry, Lady Yennefer . . . I probably . . . probably used a bit too much . . .’
‘A little bit. Don’t worry. Come here. Come on, little one.’
‘And . . . and the shack?’
‘These things happen. There’s no need to take it to heart. Your debut, on the whole, should be viewed as a success. And the shack? It wasn’t too pretty. I don’t think anyone will miss its presence in the landscape. Hold on, ladies! Calm down, calm down, why this uproar and commotion, nothing has happened ! Easy, Nenneke! Really, nothing has happened. The planks just need to be cleared away. They’ll make good firewood!’
During the warm, still afternoons the air grew thick with the scent of flowers and grass; pulsating with peace and silence, broken by the buzz of bees and enormous beetles. On afternoons like this Yennefer carried Nenneke’s wicker chair out into the garden and sat in it, stretching her legs out in front of her. Sometimes she studied books, sometimes read letters which she received by means of strange couriers, usually birds. At times she simply sat gazing into the distance. With one hand, and lost in thought, she ruffled her black, shiny locks, with the other she stroked Ciri’s head as she sat on the grass, snuggled up to the magician’s warm, firm thigh.
‘Lady Yennefer?’
‘I’m here, ugly one.’
‘Tell me, can one do anything with magic?’
‘No.’
‘But you can do a great deal, am I right?’
‘You are.’ The enchantress closed he
r eyes for a moment and touched her eyelids with her fingers. ‘A great deal.’
‘Something really great . . . Something terrible! Very terrible?’
‘Sometimes even more so than one would have liked.’
‘Hmm . . . And could I . . . When will I be able to do something like that?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe never. Would that you don’t have to.’
Silence. No words. Heat. The scent of flowers and herbs.
‘Lady Yennefer?’
‘What now, ugly one?’
‘How old were you when you became a wizard?’
‘When I passed the preliminary exams? Thirteen.’
‘Ha! Just like I am now! And how . . . How old were you when . . . No, I won’t ask about that—’
‘Sixteen.’
‘Aha . . .’ Ciri blushed faintly and pretended to be suddenly interested in a strangely formed cloud hovering over the temple towers. ‘And how old were you . . . when you met Geralt?’
‘Older, ugly one. A bit older.’
‘You still keep on calling me ugly one! You know how I don’t like it. Why do you do it?’
‘Because I’m malicious. Wizards are always malicious.’
‘But I don’t want to . . . don’t want to be ugly. I want to be pretty. Really pretty, like you, Lady Yennefer. Can I, through magic, be as pretty as you one day?’
‘You . . . Fortunately you don’t have to . . . You don’t need magic for it. You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘But I want to be really pretty!’
‘You are really pretty. A really pretty ugly one. My pretty little ugly one . . .’
‘Oh, Lady Yennefer!’
‘Ciri, you’re going to bruise my thigh.’
‘Lady Yennefer?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you looking at like that?’
‘At that tree. That linden tree.’
‘And what’s so interesting about it?’
‘Nothing. I’m simply feasting my eyes on it. I’m happy that . . . I can see it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Good.’
Silence. No words. Humid.
‘Lady Yennefer!’
‘What now?’
‘There’s a spider crawling towards your leg! Look how hideous it is!’
‘A spider’s a spider.’
‘Kill it!’
‘I can’t be bothered to bend over.’
‘Then kill it with magic!’
‘On the grounds of Melitele’s Temple? So that Nenneke can throw us out head first? No, thank you. And now be quiet. I want to think.’
‘And what are you thinking about so seriously? Hmm. All right, I’m not going to say anything now.’
‘I’m beside myself with joy. I was worried you were going to ask me another one of your unequal grand questions.’
‘Why not? I like your unequal grand answers!’
‘You’re getting impudent, ugly one.’
‘I’m a wizard. Wizards are malicious and impudent.’
No words. Silence. Stillness in the air. Close humidity as if before a storm. And silence, this time broken by the distant croaking of ravens and crows.
‘There are more and more of them.’ Ciri looked upwards. ‘They’re flying and flying . . . Like in autumn . . . Hideous birds . . . The priestesses say that it’s a bad sign . . . An omen, or something. What is an omen, Lady Yennefer?’
‘Look it up in Dhu Dwimmermorc. There’s a whole chapter on the subject.’
Silence.
‘Lady Yennefer . . .’
‘Oh, hell. What is it now?’
‘It’s been so long, why isn’t Geralt . . . Why isn’t he coming?’
‘He’s forgotten about you, no doubt, ugly one. He’s found himself a prettier girl.’
‘Oh, no! I know he hasn’t forgotten! He couldn’t have! I know that, I know that for certain, Lady Yennefer!’
‘It’s good you know. You’re a lucky ugly one.’
‘I didn’t like you,’ she repeated.
Yennefer did not look at her as she stood at the window with her back turned, staring at the hills looming black in the east. Above the hills, the sky was dark with flocks of ravens and crows.
In a minute she’s going to ask why I didn’t like her, thought Ciri. No, she’s too clever to ask such a question. She’ll dryly draw my attention to my grammar and ask when I started using the past tense. And I’ll tell her. I’ll be just as dry as she is, I’ll parody her tone of voice, let her know that I, too, can pretend to be cold, unfeeling and indifferent, ashamed of my feelings and emotions. I’ll tell her everything. I want to, I have to tell her everything. I want her to know everything before we leave Melitele’s Temple. Before we part to finally meet the one I miss. The one she misses. The one who no doubt misses us both. I want to tell her that . . .
I’ll tell her. It’s enough for her to ask.
The magician turned from the window and smiled. She did not ask anything.
They left the following day, early in the morning. Both wore men’s travelling clothes, cloaks, hats and hoods which hid their hair. Both were armed.
Only Nenneke saw them off. She spoke quietly and at length with Yennefer, then they both – the magician and the priestess – shook each other’s hand, hard, like men. Ciri, holding the reins of her dapple-grey mare, wanted to say goodbye in the same way, but Nenneke did not allow it. She embraced her, hugged her and gave her a kiss. There were tears in her eyes. In Ciri’s, too.
‘Well,’ said the priestess finally, wiping her eye with the sleeve of her robe, ‘now go. May the Great Melitele protect you on your way, my dears. But the goddess has a great many things on her mind, so look after yourselves too. Take care of her, Yennefer. Keep her safe, like the apple of your eye.’
‘I hope’ – the magician smiled faintly – ‘that I’ll manage to keep her safer.’
Across the sky, towards Pontar Valley, flew flocks of crows, croaking loudly. Nenneke did not look at them.
‘Take care,’ she repeated. ‘Bad times are approaching. It might turn out to be true, what Ithlinne aep Aevenien knew, what she predicted. The Time of the Sword and Axe is approaching. The Time of Contempt and the Wolf ’s Blizzard. Take care of her, Yennefer. Don’t let anyone harm her.’
‘I’ll be back, Mother,’ said Ciri, leaping into her saddle. ‘I’ll be back for sure! Soon!’
She did not know how very wrong she was.
Time of Contempt
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
ENDNOTES
CHAPTER ONE
Blood on your hands, Falka,
Blood on your dress.
Burn, burn, Falka, and die,
Die in agony for your crimes!
Vedymins, called witchers among the Nordlings (q.v.), a mysterious and elite caste of warriorpriests, probably an offshoot of the druids (q.v.). In the folk consciousness, they are endowed with magical powers and superhuman abilities; v. were said to fight evil spirits, monsters and all manner of dark forces. In reality, since they were unparalleled in their ability to wield weapons, v. were used by the rulers of the north in the tribal fighting they waged with each other. In combat v. fell into a trance, brought on, it is believed, by autohypnosis or intoxicating substances, and fought with pure energy, being utterly invulnerable to pain or even grave wounds, which reinforced the superstitions about their superhuman powers. The theory, according to which v. were said to have been the products of mutation or genetic engineering, has not found confirmation. V. are the heroes of numerous Nordling tales (cf. F. Delannoy, Myths and Legends of the Nordlings).
Effenberg and Talbot
Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, Vol. XV
When talking to youngsters entering the service, Aplegatt usually told them that in order to
make their living as mounted messengers two things would be necessary: a head of gold and an arse of iron.
A head of gold is essential, Aplegatt instructed the young messengers, since in the flat leather pouch strapped to his chest beneath his clothing the messenger only carries news of less vital importance, which could without fear be entrusted to treacherous paper or manuscript. The really important, secret tidings – those on which a great deal depended – must be committed to memory by the messenger and only repeated to the intended recipient. Word for word; and at times those words are far from simple. Difficult to pronounce, let alone remember. In order to memorise them and not make a mistake when they are recounted, one has to have a truly golden head.
And the benefits of an arse of iron, oh, every messenger will swiftly learn those for himself. When the moment comes for him to spend three days and nights in the saddle, riding a hundred or even two hundred miles along roads or sometimes, when necessary, trackless terrain, then it is needed. No, of course you don’t sit in the saddle without respite; sometimes you dismount and rest. For a man can bear a great deal, but a horse less. However, when it’s time to get back in the saddle after resting, it’s as though your arse were shouting, ‘Help! Murder!’
‘But who needs mounted messengers now, Master Aplegatt?’ young people would occasionally ask in astonishment. ‘Take Vengerberg to Vizima; no one could knock that off in less than four – or even five – days, even on the swiftest steed. But how long does a sorcerer from Vengerberg need to send news to a sorcerer from Vizima? Half an hour, or not even that. A messenger’s horse may go lame, but a sorcerer’s message always arrives. It never loses its way. It never arrives late or gets lost. What’s the point of messengers, if there are sorcerers everywhere, at every kingly court? Messengers are no longer necessary, Master Aplegatt.’
For some time Aplegatt had also been thinking he was no longer of any use to anyone. He was thirty-six and small but strong and wiry, wasn’t afraid of hard work and had – naturally – a head of gold. He could have found other work to support himself and his wife, to put a bit of money by for the dowries of his two as yet unmarried daughters and to continue helping the married one whose husband, the sad loser, was always unlucky in his business ventures. But Aplegatt couldn’t and didn’t want to imagine any other job. He was a royal mounted messenger and that was that.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 33
