The Saga of the Witcher

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘Agreed,’ Yennefer said, vigorously scratching a shoulder blade. Her skin, dried out by the compression, was still itching intolerably. ‘Now tell me the names of the other members. Apart from you and Philippa.’

  ‘Margarita Laux-Antille, Triss Merigold and Keira Metz. Sheala de Tancarville of Kovir. Sabrina Glevissig. And two sorceresses from Nilfgaard.’

  ‘An international women’s republic?’

  ‘Let’s say.’

  ‘They must still think I’m an accomplice of Vilgefortz. Will they accept me?’

  ‘They accepted me. The rest I leave to you. You will be asked to give an account of your relationship with Ciri. From the very beginning, which – thanks to your witcher – was fifteen years ago in Cintra, and right up until the events of a month and a half ago. Frankness and honesty will be absolutely paramount. And will confirm your loyalty to the lodge.’

  ‘Who said there’s anything to confirm? Isn’t it too early to talk of loyalty? I’m not even familiar with the statute or programme of this new institution . . .’

  ‘Yennefer,’ the she-elf interjected, frowning slightly. ‘I’m recommending you to the lodge. But I have no intention of forcing you to do anything. Particularly not to be loyal. You have a choice.’

  ‘I think I know what it is.’

  ‘And you would be right. But it is still a free choice. Speaking for myself, I still heartily encourage you to choose the lodge. Trust me; by doing so you’ll be helping Ciri much more effectively than by plunging headlong into a whirl of events, which, I’m guessing, you would love to do. Ciri’s life is in danger. Only our combined efforts can save her. When you have heard what is said in Montecalvo, you’ll realise I was speaking the truth . . . Yennefer, I don’t like the gleam in your eyes. Give me your word you will not try to escape.’

  ‘No.’ Yennefer shook her head, covering the star on the velvet ribbon with her hand. ‘No, I will not, Francesca.’

  ‘I must warn you, my dear. All Montecalvo’s stationary portals have a distorting blockade. Anyone who tries to enter or leave without Philippa’s permission will end up in a dungeon lined with dimeritium. You’ll be unable to open your own teleportal without the appropriate components. I don’t want to confiscate your star, because you have to be in full possession of your faculties. But if you try any tricks . . . Yennefer, I cannot allow— The lodge won’t allow you to launch an insane, one-woman attempt to rescue Ciri and seek vengeance. I still have your matrix and the spell’s algorithm. I’ll shrink you and pack you into a jade statuette again. For several months this time. Or years, if necessary.’

  ‘Thank you for the warning. But I still will not give you my word.’

  Fringilla Vigo was putting on a brave face, but she was anxious and stressed. She herself had often reprimanded young Nilfgaardian mages for uncritically yielding to stereotypical opinions and notions. She herself had regularly ridiculed the crude image painted by gossip and propaganda of the typical sorceress from the North: artificially beautiful, arrogant, vain and spoiled to the limits of perversion, and often beyond them. Right now, though, the closer the sequence of teleportals brought her to Montecalvo Castle, the greater she was racked by uncertainty about what she would find when she arrived at the secret lodge meeting. And about what awaited her. Her untrammelled imagination offered up images of impossibly gorgeous women with diamond necklaces resting on naked breasts with rouged nipples, women with moist lips and eyes glistening from the effects of alcohol and narcotics. In her mind’s eye Fringilla could already see the gathering becoming a wild and depraved orgy accompanied by frenzied music, aphrodisiacs, and slaves of both sexes using exotic accessories.

  The final teleportal left her standing between two black marble columns, with dry lips, her eyes watering from the magic wind and her hand tightly clenching her emerald necklace, which filled the square neckline. Beside her materialised Assire var Anahid, also visibly agitated. Nevertheless, Fringilla had reason to suppose her friend was feeling uncomfortable owing to her new and unfamiliar outfit: a plain, but very elegant hyacinth dress, complemented with a small, modest alexandrite necklace.

  Her anxiety was dispelled at once. It was cool and quiet in the large hall, which was lit by magical lanterns. There was no naked slave beating a drum, nor girls with sequinned pubic mounds dancing on the table. Neither was there the scent of hashish or Spanish fly in the air. Instead the Nilfgaardian enchantresses were welcomed by Philippa Eilhart, the lady of the castle; tastefully dressed, grave, courteous and businesslike. The others approached and introduced themselves and Fringilla sighed with relief. The sorceresses from the North were beautiful, colourful, and sparkled with jewellery, but there was no trace of intoxicating substances or nymphomania in their eyes, which were accentuated by understated make-up. Nor did any of them have naked breasts. Quite the opposite. Two of them had extremely modest gowns, fastened up to the neck: the severe Sheala de Tancarville, dressed in black, and the young Triss Merigold with her blue eyes and exquisite auburn hair. The dark-haired Sabrina Glevissig and the blondes Margarita Laux-Antille and Keira Metz all had low-cut necklines, only slightly more revealing than Fringilla’s.

  The wait for other participants was filled by polite conversation, during which all of them had the opportunity to say something about themselves. Philippa Eilhart’s tactful comments and observations swiftly and adroitly broke the ice, although the only ice in the vicinity was on the food table, which was piled high with a mountain of oysters. No other ice could be discerned. Sheala de Tancarville, a scholar, immediately found a great deal of common ground with the scholar Assire var Anahid, while Fringilla quickly warmed towards the bubbly Triss Merigold. The conversation was accompanied by the greedy consumption of oysters. The only person not eating was Sabrina Glevissig, a true daughter of the Kaedwen forests, who took the liberty of expressing a scornful opinion about ‘that slimy filth’ and a yen for a slice of cold venison with plums. Philippa Eilhart, instead of reacting to the insult with haughty coolness, tugged on the bell pull and a moment later meat was brought in inconspicuously and noiselessly. Fringilla’s astonishment was immense. Well, she thought, it takes all sorts.

  The teleportal between the columns flared up and vibrated audibly. Utter amazement was painted on Sabrina Glevissig’s face. Keira Metz dropped an oyster and a knife onto the ice. Triss stifled a gasp.

  Three sorceresses emerged from the portal. Three she-elves. One with hair the colour of dark gold, one of vermilion and the third of raven black.

  ‘Welcome, Francesca,’ Philippa said. In her voice was none of the emotion being expressed by her eyes, which, though, she quickly narrowed. ‘Welcome, Yennefer.’

  ‘I was given the privilege of filling two seats,’ the golden-haired newcomer addressed as Francesca said melodiously, undoubtedly noticing Philippa’s astonishment. ‘Here are my candidates. Yennefer of Vengerberg, who needs no introduction. And Mistress Ida Emean aep Sivney, an Aen Saevherne from the Blue Mountains.’

  Ida Emean slightly inclined her head and her mass of red curls and rustled her floating daffodil-yellow dress.

  ‘May I assume,’ Francesca said, looking around, ‘that we are all here now?’

  ‘Only Vilgefortz is missing,’ Sabrina Glevissig hissed quietly, but with unfeigned anger, looking askance at Yennefer.

  ‘And the Scoia’tael hiding in the cellars,’ Keira Metz muttered. Triss froze her with a look.

  Philippa made the introductions. Fringilla watched Francesca Findabair with curiosity – Enid an Gleanna, the Daisy of the Valleys, the illustrious Queen of Dol Blathanna, the queen of the elves, who had not long before recovered their country. The rumours about Francesca’s beauty were not exaggerated, thought Fringilla.

  The red-headed and large-eyed Ida Emean clearly aroused everybody’s interest, including both sorceresses from Nilfgaard. The free elves from the Blue Mountains maintained contact neither with humans nor with their own kind living closer to humans. The few Aen Saevherne – or Sages –
among the free elves were an almost legendary enigma. Few – even among elves – could boast of a close relationship with the Aen Saevherne. Ida did not only stand out in the group by the colour of hair. There was not a single ounce of metal nor a carat of stone in her jewellery; she wore only pearls, coral and amber.

  However, the source of the greatest emotions was, unsurprisingly, the third of the new arrivals: Yennefer, dressed in black and white and with raven-black hair, who was no elf despite first impressions. Her arrival in Montecalvo must have been an immense surprise, and a not entirely pleasant one. Fringilla felt an aura of antipathy and hostility emanating from some of the sorceresses.

  While the Nilfgaardian sorceresses were being introduced to her, Yennefer let her violet eyes rest on Fringilla. They were tired and had dark circles around them, which even her make-up was unable to hide.

  ‘We know each other,’ she said, touching the obsidian star hanging from its velvet ribbon.

  A heavy silence, pregnant with anticipation, suddenly descended on the chamber.

  ‘We’ve already met,’ Yennefer spoke again.

  ‘I don’t recall,’ Fringilla said without looking away.

  ‘I’m not surprised. But I have a good memory for faces and figures. I saw you from Sodden Hill.’

  ‘In which case there can be no mistake,’ Fringilla Vigo said and raised her head proudly, sweeping her eyes over all those present. ‘I was at the Battle of Sodden.’

  Philippa Eilhart forestalled a response.

  ‘I was there too,’ she said. ‘And I also have many recollections. I don’t think, however, that excessive straining of the memory or unnecessary rummaging around in it will bring us any benefit here, in this chamber. What we plan to undertake here will be better served by forgetting, forgiving and being reconciled with each other. Do you agree, Yennefer?’

  The black-haired sorceress tossed her curly locks away from her forehead.

  ‘When I finally learn what you’re trying to do here,’ she replied, ‘I’ll tell you what I agree with, Philippa. And what I don’t agree with.’

  ‘In that case it would be best if we began without delay. Please, would you take your places, ladies.’

  The seats at the round table – apart from one – had place cards. Fringilla sat down beside Assire var Anahid, with the unnamed seat on her right separating her from Sheala de Tancarville, beyond whom Sabina Glevissig and Keira Metz took their places. On Assire’s left sat Ida Emean, Francesca Findabair and Yennefer. Philippa Eilhart occupied the place exactly opposite Assire, with Margarita Laux-Antille on her right, and Triss Merigold on her left.

  All of the chairs had armrests carved in the shape of sphinxes.

  Philippa began. She repeated the welcome and immediately got down to business. Fringilla, to whom Assire had given a detailed report of the lodge’s previous meeting, learned nothing new from the introduction. Neither was she surprised by the declarations made by all the sorceresses to join the lodge, nor the first contributions to the discussion. She was somewhat disconcerted, however, that those first voices related to the war the Empire was waging with the Nordlings, and in particular the operation in Sodden and Brugge which had been begun a short time before, during which the imperial forces had clashed with the Temerian Army. In spite of the lodge’s statutory political neutrality, the sorceresses were unable to hide their views. Some were clearly anxious about the close proximity of Nilfgaard. Fringilla had mixed feelings. She had assumed that such educated people would understand that the Empire was bringing culture, prosperity, order and political stability to the North. On the other hand, though, she didn’t know how she would have reacted herself, were foreign armies approaching her home.

  However, Philippa Eilhart had clearly heard enough discussion about military matters.

  ‘No one is capable of predicting the outcome of this war,’ she said. ‘What is more, predictions of that kind are pointless. It’s time we looked at this matter with a dispassionate eye. Firstly, war is not such a great evil. I’d be more afraid of the consequences of overpopulation, which at this stage of the growth of agriculture and industry would lead to famine. Secondly, war is an extension of the kings’ politics. How many of those who are reigning now will be alive in a hundred years? None of them, that’s obvious. How many dynasties will last? There’s no way of predicting. In a hundred years, today’s territorial and dynastic conflicts, today’s ambitions and hopes will be dust in the history books. But if we don’t protect ourselves, if we allow ourselves to be drawn into the war, nothing but dust will remain of us too. If, however, we look a little beyond the battle flags, if we close our ears to the cries of war and patriotism, we shall survive. And we must survive. We must, because we bear responsibility. Not towards kings and their local interests, focused on the concerns of one kingdom. We are responsible for the whole world. For progress. For the changes which accompany this progress. We are responsible for the future.’

  ‘Tissaia de Vries would have expressed it differently,’ Francesca Findabair said. ‘She was always concerned with responsibility towards the common man. Not in the future, but here and now.’

  ‘Tissaia de Vries is dead. Were she alive, she would be here among us.’

  ‘No doubt,’ the Daisy of the Valleys smiled. ‘But I don’t think she would have agreed with the theory that war is a remedy for famine and overpopulation. Pay attention to the language used here, honourable sisters. We are debating using the Common Speech, which is meant to ease understanding. But for me it’s a foreign language; one becoming more and more foreign. In the language of my mother the expression “the common man” does not exist, and “the common elf” would be a coinage. The late, lamented Tissaia de Vries was concerned with the fate of ordinary humans. To me, the fate of ordinary elves is no less important. I’d gladly applaud the idea of looking ahead and treating today as ephemera. But I’m sorry to state that today paves the way for tomorrow, and without tomorrow there won’t be any future. For you, humans, perhaps the tears I shed over a lilac shrub burnt to ash during the turmoil of war are ridiculous. After all, there will always be lilac shrubs; if not that one, then another. And if there are no more lilac shrubs, well, there’ll be acacia trees. Forgive my botanical metaphors. But kindly note that what is a matter of politics to you humans is a matter of physical survival to the elves.’

  ‘Politics don’t interest me,’ Margarita Laux-Antille, the rectoress of the academy of magic, announced loudly. ‘I simply do not wish my girls, whose education I’ve dedicated myself to, to be used as mercenaries, pulling the wool over their eyes with slogans about love for one’s homeland. The homeland of those girls is magic; that’s what I teach them. If someone involves my girls in a war, stands them on a new Sodden Hill, they will be lost, irrespective of the result on that battlefield. I understand your reservations, Enid, but we’re here to discuss the future of magic, not issues of race.’

  ‘We are here to discuss the future of magic,’ Sabrina Glevissig repeated. ‘But the future of magic is determined by the status of sorcerers. Our status. Our importance. The role we play in society. Trust, respect and credibility, general faith in our usefulness, faith that magic is indispensable. The alternative we face seems simple: either a loss of status and isolation in ivory towers, or service. Service even on the hills of Sodden, even as mercenaries . . .’

  ‘Or as servants and errand girls?’ Triss Merigold cut in, tossing her beautiful hair off her shoulder. ‘With bent backs, ready to leap into action at every wag of the imperial finger? For that’s the role we will be assigned by the Pax Nilfgaardiana, should Nilfgaard conquer us all.’

  ‘If it does,’ Philippa said with emphasis. ‘Anyhow we won’t have much choice. For we have to serve. But serve magic. Not kings or imperators, not their present politics. Not matters of racial integration, because they are also subject to today’s political goals. Our lodge, my dear ladies, was not brought into being for us to adapt to today’s politics and daily changes on the front lin
e. Or to feverishly search for solutions appropriate to the situation at hand, changing the colour of our skin like chameleons. Our lodge must be active, but its assigned role should be quite the opposite. And carried out using all the means we have at our disposal.’

  ‘If I understand correctly,’ Sheala de Tancarville said, raising her head, ‘you are persuading us to actively influence the course of events. By fair means or foul? Including illegal measures?’

  ‘What laws do you speak of? The ones governing the rabble? The ones written in the codices, which we drew up and dictated to the royal jurists? We are only bound by one law. Our own!’

  ‘I see.’ The sorceress from Kovir smiled. ‘We, then, shall actively influence the course of events. Should the kings’ politics not be to our liking, we’ll simply change it. Correct, Philippa? Or perhaps it’s better to overthrow all those crowned asses at once; dethrone them and drive them out. And seize power at once?’

  ‘In the past we crowned kings who were convenient to us. Unfortunately we did not put magic on the throne. We have never given magic absolute power. It’s time we corrected that mistake.’

  ‘You have yourself in mind, of course?’ Sabrina Glevissig said, leaning across the table. ‘On the Redanian throne, naturally? Her Majesty Philippa the First? With Dijkstra as prince consort?’

  ‘I was not thinking about myself. Nor was I thinking about the Kingdom of Redania. I have in mind the Kingdom of the North, which the Kingdom of Kovir is today evolving into. An empire whose power will be equal to Nilfgaard’s, thanks to which the currently oscillating scales of the world will finally come to rest in equilibrium. An empire ruled by magic, which we shall raise to the throne by marrying the Kovirian crown prince to a sorceress. Yes, you heard correctly, dear sisters; you are looking in the right direction. Yes, here, at this table, in this vacant seat, we shall place the lodge’s twelfth sorceress. And then we shall put her on the throne.’