‘It’s my medallion.’
‘Aha.’ She looked suspicious. ‘A curious thing. But anyway, we’re only alive thanks to Ciri.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘His eye. He never regained full coordination. He didn’t always land his blow. But I mainly owe my life to . . .’
She fell silent, glanced at the remains of the melted column, in which the outline of a shape could be discerned.
‘Who was that, Geralt?’
‘A friend. I’m going to miss him.’
‘Was he a human?’
‘The epitome of humanity. How are you, Yen?’
‘A few broken ribs, concussion, twisted hip joint, bruised spine. Besides that, excellent. And yourself?’
‘More or less the same.’
She looked impassively at Vilgefortz’s head lying exactly in the centre of the floor mosaic. The sorcerer’s small eye, already glazed, looked at them with mute reproach.
‘That’s a nice sight,’ she said.
‘It is,’ he admitted a moment later. ‘But I’ve already seen enough. Will you be able to walk?’
‘With your help, yes.’
*
And they met, all three of them, in a place where the corridors came together, under the arcades. They met beneath the dead gazes of the alabaster caryatids.
‘Ciri,’ said the Witcher. And rubbed his eyes.
‘Ciri,’ said Yennefer, being held up by the Witcher.
‘Geralt,’ said Ciri.
‘Ciri,’ he replied, overcoming a sudden tightening of the throat. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘Madam Yennefer.’
The sorceress freed herself from the Witcher’s arm and straightened up with the greatest of effort.
‘What do you look like, girl?’ she said severely. ‘Just look at you! Tidy up your hair! Don’t stoop. Come here please.’
Ciri approached, as stiff as an automaton. Yennefer straightened and smoothed her collar, and tried to wipe the now dried blood from Ciri’s sleeve. She touched her hair. And uncovered the scar on her cheek. She hugged her tightly. Very tightly. Geralt saw her hands on Ciri’s back. Saw the deformed fingers. He didn’t feel anger, resentment or hatred. He felt only weariness. And a huge desire to be done with all of it.
‘Mamma.’
‘Daughter.’
‘Let’s go.’ He decided to interrupt them. But only after a long while.
Ciri sniffed noisily and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Yennefer shot an angry look at her, and wiped her eye, which something had probably got into. The Witcher looked down the corridor from where Ciri had exited, as though expecting somebody else to come out of it. Ciri shook her head. He understood.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Yennefer. ‘I want see the sky.’
‘I’ll never leave you both,’ Ciri said softly. ‘Never.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he repeated. ‘Ciri, hold Yen up.’
‘I don’t need holding up!’
‘Let me, Mamma.’
In front of them was a stairway, a great stairway drowning in smoke, in the twinkling glow of torches and fire in iron cressets. Ciri shuddered. She had seen that stairway before. In dreams and visions.
Down below, far away, armed men were waiting.
‘I’m tired,’ she whispered.
‘Me too,’ admitted Geralt, drawing the sihill.
‘I’ve had enough of killing.’
‘Me too.’
‘Is there no other way out?’
‘No. There isn’t. Only this stairway. We must, girl. Yen wants to see the sky. And I want to see the sky, Yen and you.’
Ciri looked back, and glanced at Yennefer, who was resting on the balustrade in order not to fall down. She took out the medallions taken from Bonhart. She put the cat around her neck and gave Geralt the wolf.
‘I hope you know it’s just a symbol?’ he said.
‘Everything’s just a symbol.’
She removed Swallow from its scabbard.
‘Let’s go, Geralt.’
‘Let’s go. Keep close beside me.’
Skellen’s mercenaries were waiting at the bottom of the stairway, gripping their weapons in sweaty fists. Tawny Owl sent the first wave up the stairs. The mercenaries’ iron-shod boots thudded on the steps.
‘Slowly, Ciri. Don’t rush. Close to me.’
‘Yes, Geralt.’
‘And calmly, girl, calmly. Remember, without anger, without hatred. We have to get out and see the sky. And the men that are standing in our way must die. Don’t hesitate.’
‘I won’t hesitate. I want to see the sky.’
They got to the first landing without mishap. The mercenaries retreated before them, astonished and surprised by their calm. But after a moment three of them leaped towards them, yelling and whirling their swords. They died at once.
‘Swarm them!’ Tawny Owl bellowed from below. ‘Kill them!’
The next three leaped forward. Geralt quickly sprang out to meet them, deceived them with a feint, and cut one of them from below in the throat. He turned around, made way for Ciri under his right arm, and Ciri smoothly slashed the next soldier in the armpit. The third one tried to save his life by leaping over the balustrade. He was too slow.
Geralt wiped splashes of blood from his face.
‘Calmly, Ciri.’
‘I am calm.’
The next three. A flash of blades, screams, death.
Thick blood crawled downwards, dribbling down the steps.
A soldier in a brass-studded brigantine leaped towards them with a long pike. His eyes were wild from narcotics. Ciri shoved the shaft aside with a diagonal parry and Geralt slashed. He wiped his face. They walked on, not looking back.
The second landing was now close.
‘Kill them!’ yelled Skellen. ‘Have at them! Kiiiilll theeeem!’
Stamping and yelling on the stairs. The flash of blades, screams. Death.
‘Good, Ciri. But more calmly. Without euphoria. And close to me.’
‘I’ll always be close to you.’
‘Don’t cut from the shoulder if you can from the elbow. Take heed.’
‘I am.’
The flash of a blade. Screams, blood. Death.
‘Good, Ciri.’
‘I want to see the sky.’
‘I love you very much.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Take heed. It’s getting slippery.’
The flash of blades, moaning. They walked on, catching up with the blood pouring down the steps. They walked down, always down, down the steps of Stygga Castle.
A soldier attacking them slipped on a bloody step, fell flat on the ground right at their feet and howled for mercy, covering his head with both hands. They passed him without looking.
No one dared to bar their way until the third landing.
‘Bows,’ Stefan Skellen bellowed from below. ‘Fire the crossbows! Boreas Mun was meant to bring the crossbows! Where is he?’
Boreas Mun – which Tawny Owl couldn’t have known – was already quite far away. He was riding eastwards, with his forehead against his horse’s mane, squeezing as much gallop out of his steed as he could.
Only one of the men sent for the bows had returned.
The man who had decided to shoot had slightly shaking hands and eyes watering from fisstech. The first bolt barely grazed the balustrade. The second didn’t even hit the stairs.
‘Higher!’ yelled Tawny Owl. ‘Go higher, you fool! Shoot from up close.’
The crossbowmen pretended he hadn’t heard. Skellen cursed at great length, snatched the crossbow from him, leaped onto the stairway, kneeled down and took aim. Geralt quickly covered Ciri with his body. But the girl slipped out from behind him like lightning, so when the bowstring clanged she was already in position. She twisted her sword to the upper quarter and hit the bolt back so hard it somersaulted many times before it fell.
‘
Very good,’ muttered Geralt. ‘Very good, Ciri. But if you ever do that again, I’ll tan your hide.’
Skellen dropped the crossbow. And suddenly realised he was alone.
All of his men were at the very bottom in a tight little group. None of them were too keen to go up the stairs. There seemed to be fewer than there were before. Once more several ran off somewhere. Probably to fetch crossbows.
And the Witcher and the witcher girl – not hurrying, but not slowing either – walked down, down the blood-covered stairway of Stygga Castle. Close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, tantalising and bamboozling their foes with fast movements of their blades.
Skellen walked backwards. And didn’t stop. Right down to the very bottom. When he found himself in the group of his own men he noticed that the retreat was continuing. He swore impotently.
‘Lads!’ he yelled, and his voice broke discordantly. ‘On you go! Have at them! En masse! Go on, have at them! Follow me!’
‘Go yourself, sir,’ mumbled one of them, raising a hand with fisstech to his nose. Tawny Owl punched him, covering the man’s face, sleeve and the front of his jacket in white powder.
The Witcher and the witcher girl passed another landing.
‘When they get to the very bottom we’ll be able to surround them!’ roared Skellen. ‘Go on, lads! Have at them! To arms!’
Geralt glanced at Ciri. And almost howled with fury, seeing streaks shining white as silver in her ashen hair. He controlled himself. It wasn’t the time for anger.
‘Be careful,’ he said softly. ‘Stay close to me.’
‘I’m always going to be close to you.’
‘It’ll be hot down there.’
‘I know. But we’re together.’
‘We’re together.’
‘I’m with you,’ said Yennefer, following them down the stairs, red and slippery with blood.
‘Form up! Form up!’ roared Tawny Owl.
Several of the men who had run to get crossbows returned. Without them. Very terrified.
The rumble of doors being forced by battle-axes, thudding, the clanking of iron and the sound of heavy steps resounded from all three corridors leading to the stairway. And suddenly soldiers in black helmets, armour and cloaks with the sign of a silver salamander marched out of all three corridors. On being shouted at thunderously and menacingly Skellen’s mercenaries threw their weapons on the floor, one after the other. Crossbows and the blades of glaives and bear spears were aimed at the more hesitant, and they were urged on by even more menacing shouts. Now all of them obeyed, for it was evident that the black-cloaked soldiers were extremely keen to kill somebody and were only waiting for a pretext. Tawny Owl stood at the foot of a column, arms crossed on his chest.
‘Miraculous relief?’ muttered Ciri. Geralt shook his head.
Crossbows and spear blades were also being aimed at them.
‘Glaeddyvan vort!’
There was no sense in resisting. Black-cloaked soldiers were swarming like ants at the bottom of the stairs, and the witchers were very, very weary. But they didn’t drop their swords. They placed them carefully on the steps. And then sat down. Geralt felt Ciri’s warm shoulder and heard her breath.
Yennefer descended, walking past corpses and pools of blood, showing the black-cloaked soldiers her unarmed hands. She sat down heavily beside them on a step. Geralt also felt the warmth against his other shoulder. It’s a pity it can’t always be like this, he thought. And he knew it couldn’t.
Tawny Owl’s men were tied up and escorted away one after the other. There were more and more soldiers in black cloaks bearing the salamander. Suddenly, high-ranking officers appeared among them, recognisable by the white plumes and silver edging on their suits of armour. And by the respect which the others showed in parting to let them pass.
The soldiers stood back with even greater respect before one of the officers, whose helmet was particularly sumptuously decorated with silver, bowing before him.
The man stopped in front of Skellen, who was standing at the foot of the column. Tawny Owl – it was very obvious even in the flickering light of the torches and the paintings burning out in the cressets – paled, becoming as white as a sheet.
‘Stefan Skellen,’ said the officer, in a resonant voice, a voice which sounded right up to the vault of the hall. ‘You will be tried in court. And punished for treason.’
Tawny Owl was led away, but his hands weren’t tied like the ordinary soldiers’ had been.
The officer turned around. A burning rag broke off from a tapestry up above. It fell, swirling like a huge fiery bird. The brightness shone on the silver-edged armour, on the visor extending halfway down the cheeks which was – like all the black-cloaked soldiers’ – shaped like horrendous toothed jaws.
Now our turn, thought Geralt. He wasn’t mistaken.
The officer looked at Ciri, and his eyes burned in the slits of the helmet, noticing and registering everything. The paleness. The scar on her cheek. The blood on her sleeve and hand. The white streaks in her hair.
Then the Nilfgaardian turned his gaze onto the Witcher.
‘Vilgefortz?’ he asked in his resonant voice. Geralt shook his head.
‘Cahir aep Ceallach?’
Another shake of the head.
‘A slaughter,’ said the officer, looking at the stairs. ‘A bloodbath. Well, he who lives by the sword . . . Furthermore, you’ve saved the hangmen work. You’ve travelled a long way, Witcher.’
Geralt didn’t comment. Ciri sniffed loudly and wiped her nose with her wrist. Yennefer gave her a scolding look. The Nilfgaardian also noticed that and smiled.
‘You’ve travelled a long way,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve come here from the end of the world. Following her and for her sake. Even if only for that reason you deserve something. Lord de Rideaux!’
‘Yes sir, Your Imperial Highness!’
The Witcher wasn’t surprised.
‘Please find a discreet chamber in which I shall be able to converse, completely undisturbed, with Sir Geralt of Rivia. During that time please offer all possible comforts and services to the two ladies. Under vigilant and unremitting guard.’
‘Yes, sir, Your Imperial Majesty.’
‘Sir Geralt, please follow me.’
The Witcher stood up. He glanced at Yennefer and Ciri, wanting to calm them and warn them not to do anything foolish. But it wasn’t necessary. They were both terribly tired. And resigned.
*
‘You’ve travelled a long way,’ repeated Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies, removing his helmet.
‘I’m not sure,’ Geralt calmly replied, ‘if you haven’t travelled further, Duny.’
‘You’ve recognised me, well, well.’ The emperor smiled. ‘And they say the lack of a beard and my way of holding myself have changed me utterly. Many of the people who used to see me earlier in Cintra came to Nilfgaard later and saw me during audiences. And no one recognised me. But you only saw me once, and that was sixteen years ago. Did I become so embedded in your memory?’
‘I wouldn’t have recognised you, you have indeed changed greatly. I simply worked out who you were. Some time ago. I guessed – not without help and a hint from someone else – what role incest played in Ciri’s family. In her blood. I even dreamed about the most awful, the most hideous incest imaginable in a gruesome nightmare. And well, here you are, in person.’
‘You can barely stand,’ said Emhyr coldly. ‘And deliberate impertinence is making you even more unsteady. You may sit in the presence of the emperor. I grant you that privilege . . . until the end of your days.’
Geralt sat down with relief. Emhyr continued to stand, leaning against a carved wardrobe.
‘You saved my daughter’s life,’ he said. ‘Several times. I thank you for that. On behalf of myself and posterity.’
‘You disarm me.’
‘Cirilla will go to Nilfgaard.’ Emhyr was not bothered by the m
ockery. ‘She will become empress at a suitable moment. In precisely the same way that dozens of girls have become and do become queens. Meaning almost not knowing their spouses. Often not having a good opinion of them on the basis of their first encounter. Often disappointed by the first days and . . . first nights . . . of marriage. Cirilla won’t be the first.’
Geralt refrained from comment.
‘Cirilla,’ continued the emperor, ‘will be happy, like most of the queens I was talking about. It will come with time. Cirilla will transfer the love that I do not demand at all onto the son I will beget with her. An archduke, and later an emperor. An emperor who will beget a son. A son, who will be the ruler of the world and will save the world from destruction. Thus speaks the prophecy whose exact contents only I know.
‘Naturally,’ the White Flame continued, ‘Cirilla will never find out who I am. The secret will die. Along with those who know it.’
‘That’s clear,’ Geralt nodded. ‘It can’t be clearer.’
‘You cannot fail to detect the hand of destiny in all of this,’ Emhyr said after a long time, ‘All of this. Including your activities. From the very beginning.’
‘I see rather the hand of Vilgefortz. For it was he who directed you to Cintra, wasn’t it? When you were the Enchanted Urcheon? He made Pavetta—’
‘You’re stumbling in the dark,’ Emhyr interrupted brutally, tossing his salamander-decorated cloak over his shoulder. ‘You don’t know anything. And you don’t have to know. I didn’t ask you here to tell you my life story. Or to excuse myself before you. The only thing you have earned is the assurance that the girl will not be harmed. I have no debts towards you, Witcher. None—’
‘Yes you do!’ Geralt interrupted brutally. ‘You broke the contract. You went back on your word. They are debts, Duny. You broke a promise as a princeling, and you have a debt as an emperor. With imperial interest. Ten years worth!’
‘Is that all?’
‘That is all. For only that is owed to me, nothing more. But nothing less, either. I was to collect the child when it turned six. You didn’t wait for the promised date. You planned to steal it from me before it passed. The destiny you keep talking about sneered at you, however. You tried to fight that destiny for the following ten years. Now you have her, you have Ciri, your own daughter, whom you once basely deprived of parents, and with whom you now mean to vilely beget incestuous children. Without demanding love. Rightly, as a matter of fact. You do not deserve her love. Just between us, Duny, I don’t know how you will manage to look her in the eyes.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 193
