The hail was still falling, hammering down, covering the square in a thick layer of icy balls gleaming like diamonds. But now the hail was lighter and more patchy, Yennefer could tell from the change in the thudding on the magical shield. And then it stopped. All at once. All of a sudden. Armed men rushed into the square, iron-shod hooves crunched on the ice. The mob roared and fled, whipped by knouts, struck by spear shafts and the flats of swords.
‘Bravo, Triss,’ Yennefer croaked. ‘I don’t know what that was . . . But you did a nice job.’
‘There was something worth defending,’ croaked Triss Merigold. The heroine of the hill.
‘There always is. Let’s run, Triss. Because it probably isn’t over yet.’
*
It was over. The hail that the sorceresses had unleashed on the town cooled down hot heads. Enough for the army to dare to strike and bring order. The soldiers had been afraid before. They knew what they were risking with an attack on the enraged mob, on a rabble drunk on blood and killing that feared nothing and would retreat before nothing. But the explosion of the elements had brought the cruel, many-headed beast under control and a charge by the army accomplished the rest.
The hailstones had caused awful havoc in the town. And a man who a moment earlier had beaten a dwarf woman to death with a swingletree and shattered her child’s head against a wall was now sobbing, was now weeping, was now swallowing back tears and snot, looking at what was left of the roof of his house.
Peace reigned in Rivia. Were it not for the almost two hundred mutilated corpses and a dozen burned down homesteads, one might think nothing had happened. In the district of Elm, on Loch Eskalott, over which the gorgeous arc of a rainbow was shining, weeping willows were reflected beautifully in the smooth, mirror-like water, birds had resumed their singing and it smelt of wet foliage. Everything looked pastoral. Even the Witcher, lying in a pool of blood with Ciri kneeling over him.
*
Geralt was unconscious and as white as a sheet. He lay motionless, but when they stood over him he began to cough, wheeze and spit blood. He began to shake and tremble so hard Ciri couldn’t stop him. Yennefer kneeled down beside her. Triss saw that her hands were shaking. She herself suddenly felt as weak as a kitten, and everything went black. Someone held her up, stopped her from falling. She recognised Dandelion.
‘It’s not working at all.’ She heard Ciri’s voice emanating despair. ‘Your magic isn’t healing him at all, Yennefer.’
‘We arrived . . .’ Yennefer had difficulty moving her lips. ‘We arrived too late.’
‘Your magic’s not working,’ Ciri repeated, as though she hadn’t heard her. ‘What’s it worth then, your confounded magic?’
You’re right, Ciri, thought Triss, feeling a lump in her throat. We know how to cause a hailstorm, but we can’t drive death away. Although the latter would seem to be easier.
‘We’ve sent for a physician,’ said the dwarf standing beside Dandelion hoarsely. ‘But he’s taking his time . . .’
‘It’s too late for a physician,’ said Triss, surprising herself by the calm in her voice. ‘He’s dying.’
Geralt trembled once more, coughed up blood, tensed and went still. Dandelion, supporting Triss, sighed in despair and the dwarf swore. Yennefer groaned. Her face suddenly changed, contorted and grew ugly.
‘There’s nothing more pathetic,’ Ciri said sharply, ‘than a weeping sorceress. You taught me that yourself. But now you’re pathetic, really pathetic, Yennefer. You and your magic, which isn’t fit for anything.’
Yennefer didn’t respond. She was holding Geralt’s limp, paralysed head in both hands and repeating spells, her voice quavering. Pale blue sparks and crackling glimmers danced over her hands and the Witcher’s cheeks and forehead. Triss knew how much energy spells like that used up. She also knew the spells wouldn’t help in any way. She was more than certain that even the spells of expert healers would have been powerless. It was too late. Yennefer’s spells were only exhausting her. Triss was amazed that the black-haired sorceress was holding out so long.
She stopped being amazed, when Yennefer fell silent halfway through the next magical formula and slumped down onto the cobbles beside the Witcher.
One of the dwarves swore again. The other stood with head lowered. Dandelion, still holding Triss up, sniffed.
It suddenly became very cold. The surface of the lake filled with fog like a sorceress’s cauldron, became enveloped in mist. The fog rose swiftly, billowed over the water and rolled onto the land in waves, enveloping everything in a thick, white milk in which sounds grew quieter and died away, in which shapes vanished and forms blurred.
‘And I once renounced my power,’ said Ciri slowly, still kneeling on the blood-soaked cobbles. ‘Had I not renounced it I would have saved him now. I would have healed him, I know it. But it’s too late. I renounced it and now I can’t do anything. It’s as though I’ve killed him.’
The silence was first interrupted by Kelpie’s loud neighing. Then by Dandelion’s muffled cry.
Then they were all struck dumb.
*
A white unicorn emerged from the fog, running very lightly, ethereally and noiselessly, gracefully raising its shapely head. There actually wasn’t anything unusual in that – everybody knew the legends, and they were unanimous about unicorns running very lightly, ethereally and noiselessly and raising their heads with characteristic grace. If anything was strange it was that the unicorn was running over the surface of the water and the water wasn’t even rippling.
Dandelion groaned, but this time in awe. Triss felt herself being seized by a thrill. By euphoria.
The unicorn clattered its hooves on the stone boulevard. It shook its mane. And neighed lengthily and melodically.
‘Ihuarraquax,’ said Ciri. ‘I’d hoped you’d come.’
The unicorn came closer, neighed again, tapped with a hoof and then struck the cobbles hard. He bent his head. The horn sticking out of his domed forehead suddenly lit up with a bright glare, a brilliance that dispersed the fog for a moment.
Ciri touched the horn.
Triss cried out softly, seeing the girl’s eyes suddenly lighting up with a milky glow, saw her surrounded by a fiery halo. Ciri couldn’t hear her, couldn’t hear anyone. She was still holding the unicorn’s horn in one hand, and pointed the other towards the motionless Witcher. A ribbon of flickering brightness that glowed like lava flowed from her fingers.
*
No one could tell how long it lasted. Because it was unreal.
Like a dream.
*
The unicorn, almost blurring in the thickening fog, neighed, struck its hoof, and shook its head and horn, as though pointing at something. Triss looked. She saw a dark shape on the water under the canopy of willow branches hanging over the lake. It was a boat.
The unicorn pointed again with its horn. And quickly began to vanish into the mist.
‘Kelpie,’ said Ciri. ‘Follow him.’
Kelpie snorted. And tossed her head. She followed the unicorn obediently. Her horseshoes rang on the cobbles for a while. Then the sound suddenly broke off. As though the mare had taken wing, disappeared, dematerialised.
The boat was beside the very bank, and in the moments when the fog dispersed Triss could see it clearly. It was a primitively constructed barge, as clumsy and angular as a large pig trough.
‘Help me,’ said Ciri. Her voice was confident and determined.
No one knew at the beginning what the girl meant, what help she was expecting. Dandelion was the first to understand. Perhaps because he knew the legend, had once read one of its poeticized versions. He picked up the still unconscious Yennefer. He was astonished at how dainty and light she was. He could have sworn somebody was helping him carry her. He could have sworn he could feel Cahir’s shoulder beside his arm. Out of the corner of one eye he caught sight of a flash of Milva’s flaxen plait. When he placed the sorceress in the boat he could have sworn he saw Angoulême’s hands ste
adying the side.
The dwarves carried the Witcher, helped by Triss, who was supporting his head. Yarpen Zigrin positively blinked on seeing both Dahlberg brothers for a second. Zoltan Chivay could have sworn that Caleb Stratton had helped him lay the Witcher in the boat. Triss Merigold was absolutely certain she could smell the perfume of Lytta Neyd, also called Coral. And for a moment she saw amidst the haze the bright, yellow-green eyes of Coën from Kaer Morhen.
That was the kind of tricks played on the senses by the fog, the thick fog over Loch Eskalott.
‘It’s ready, Ciri,’ the sorceress said dully. ‘Your boat is waiting.’
Ciri brushed her hair back from her forehead and sniffed.
‘Apologise to the ladies of Montecalvo, Triss,’ she said. ‘But it can’t be otherwise. I cannot stay when Geralt and Yennefer are departing. I simply cannot. They ought to understand.’
‘They ought to.’
‘Farewell then, Triss Merigold. Farewell, Dandelion. Farewell all of you.’
‘Ciri,’ whispered Triss. ‘Little sister . . . Let me sail away with you . . .’
‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Triss.’
‘Will you ever—?’
‘For certain,’ she interrupted firmly.
She boarded the boat, which rocked and immediately began to sail away. To fade into the fog. Those that were standing on the bank didn’t hear even the merest splash, didn’t see any ripples or movements of the water. As though it wasn’t a boat but an apparition.
For a very short time they could still see Ciri’s slight and ethereal silhouette, saw her push off from the bottom with a long pole, saw her urge on the already quickly gliding barge.
And then there was only the fog.
She lied to me, thought Triss. I’ll never see her again. I’ll never see her, because . . . Vaesse deireadh aep eigean. Something ends . . .
‘Something has ended,’ said Dandelion in an altered voice.
‘Something is beginning,’ Yarpen Zigrin chimed in.
A rooster crowed loudly somewhere in the direction of the town.
The fog quickly began to rise.
*
Geralt opened his eyes, irritated by the play of light and shadow through his eyelids. He saw leaves above him, a kaleidoscope of leaves flickering in the sun. He saw branches heavy with apples.
He felt the soft touch of fingers on his temple and cheek. Fingers he knew. Fingers he loved so much it hurt.
His belly and chest hurt, his ribs hurt and the tight corset of bandages left him in no doubt that the town of Rivia and the three-fanged trident hadn’t been a nightmare.
‘Lie still, my darling,’ Yennefer said gently. ‘Lie still. Don’t move.’
‘Where are we, Yen?’
‘Is it important? We’re together. You and me.’
Birds – either greenfinches or thrushes – were singing. It smelled of grass, herbs and flowers. And apples.
‘Where’s Ciri?’
‘She’s gone away.’
She changed her position, gently freeing her arm from under his head and lay down beside him on the grass so that she could look in his eyes. She looked at him voraciously, as though she wanted to feast her eyes on the sight, as though she wanted to eat him up with her eyes to store it away, for the whole of eternity. He looked at her too, and longing choked him.
‘We were with Ciri in a boat,’ he recalled. ‘On a lake. Then on a river. On a river with a strong current. In the fog.’
Her fingers found his hand and squeezed it strongly.
‘Lie still, my darling. Lie still. I’m beside you. It doesn’t matter what happened, doesn’t matter where we were. Now I’m beside you. And I’ll never leave you. Never.’
‘I love you, Yen.’
‘I know.’
‘All the same,’ he sighed, ‘I’d like to know where we are.’
‘Me too,’ said Yennefer, quietly and not right away.
*
‘And is that the end of the story?’ Galahad asked a moment later.
‘Not at all,’ protested Ciri, rubbing one foot against the other, wiping off the dried sand that had stuck to her toes and the sole of her foot. ‘Would you like the story to end like that? Like hell! I wouldn’t!’
‘So what happened then?’
‘Nothing special,’ she snorted. ‘They got married.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Aaah, what is there to tell? There was a great big wedding. They all came: Dandelion, Mother Nenneke, Iola and Eurneid, Yarpen Zigrin, Vesemir, Eskel . . . Coën, Milva, Angoulême . . . And my Mistle . . . And I was there, I drank mead and wine. And they, I mean Geralt and Yennefer, had their own house afterwards and were happy, very, very happy. Like in a fairy tale. Do you understand?’
‘Why are you weeping like that, O Lady of the Lake?’
‘I’m not weeping at all. My eyes are watering from the wind. And that’s that!’
They were silent for a long time, and looked as the red-hot glowing ball of the sun touched the mountain peaks.
‘Indeed—’ Galahad finally interrupted the silence ‘—it was a very strange story, oh, very strange. Truly, Miss Ciri, the world you came from is incredible.’
Ciri sniffed loudly.
‘Yeees,’ continued Galahad, clearing his throat several times, feeling a little uncomfortable by her silence. ‘But astounding adventures also occur here, in our world. Let’s take, for instance, what happened to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight . . . Or to my uncle, Sir Bors, and Sir Tristan . . . Just consider, Lady Ciri, Sir Bors and Sir Tristan set off one day for the West, towards Tintagel. The road led them through forests untamed and perilous. They rode and rode, and looked, and there stood a white hind, and beside it a lady, dressed in black. Truly a blacker black you couldn’t even see in nightmares. And that comely lady, so comely you couldn’t see a comelier one in the whole world, well, apart from Queen Guinevere . . . That lady standing by the hind saw the knights, beckoned and spake thus to them . . .’
‘Galahad.’
‘Yes?’
‘Be quiet.’
He coughed, cleared his throat and fell silent. They were both silent, looking at the sun. They were silent for a long time.
‘Lady of the Lake?’
‘I’ve asked you not to call me that.’
‘Lady Ciri?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ride with me to Camelot, O Lady Ciri. King Arthur, you’ll see, will show you honour and respect . . . While I . . . I shall always love you and revere you—’
‘Get up from your knee, at once! Or maybe not. If you’re there, rub my feet. They’re really frozen. Thank you. You’re sweet. I said my feet! My feet finish at the ankles!’
‘Lady Ciri?’
‘I haven’t gone anywhere.’
‘The day is drawing to a close . . .’
‘Indeed.’ Ciri fastened her boot buckles and stood up. ‘Let’s saddle up, Galahad. Is there somewhere around here we can spend the night? Ha, I see from your expression that you know this place as well as I do. But never mind, let’s set off, even if we have to sleep under an open sky, let’s go a bit further, into a forest. There’s a breeze coming off the lake . . . Why are you looking like that?
‘Aha,’ she guessed, seeing him blush. ‘Are you imagining a night under a filbert bush, on a carpet of moss? In the arms of a fairy? Listen, young man, I don’t have the slightest desire—’
She broke off, looking at his blushing cheeks and shining eyes. At his actually not bad-looking face. Something squeezed her belly and it wasn’t hunger.
What’s happening to me? she thought. What’s happening to me?
‘Don’t dilly-dally!’ she almost shouted. ‘Saddle your stallion!’
When they mounted she looked at him and laughed out loud. He glanced at her, and his gaze was one of amazement and questioning.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she said freely. ‘I just thought of something. On we go, Galahad.’
A
carpet of moss, she thought, suppressing a giggle. Under a filbert bush. With me playing the fairy. Well, well.
‘Lady Ciri . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you ride with me to Camelot?’
She held out her hand. And he held out his. They joined hands, riding side by side.
By the devil, she thought, why not? I’d bet any money that in this world a job could be found for a witcher girl.
Because there isn’t a world where there wouldn’t be work for a witcher.
‘Lady Ciri . . .’
‘Let’s not talk about it now. Let’s go.’
They rode straight into the setting sun. Leaving behind them the darkening valley. Behind them was the lake, the enchanted lake, the blue lake as smooth as a polished sapphire. They left behind them the boulders on the lakeside. The pines on the hillsides.
That was all behind them.
And before them was everything.
Turn the page for a glimpse into
The Witcher’s past …
An extract from the next tale of Geralt of Rivia:
SEASON OF STORMS
CHAPTER ONE
It lived only to kill.
It was lying on the sun-warmed sand.
It could sense the vibrations being transmitted through its hair-like feelers and bristles. Though the vibrations were still far off, the idr could feel them distinctly and precisely; it was thus able to determine not only its quarry’s direction and speed of movement, but also its weight. As with most similar predators, the weight of the prey was of cardinal importance. Stalking, attacking and giving chase meant a loss of energy that had to be compensated by the calorific value of its food. Most predators similar to the idr would quit their attack if their prey was too small. But not the idr. The idr didn’t exist to eat and sustain the species. It hadn’t been created for that.
It lived to kill.
Moving its limbs cautiously, it exited the hollow, crawled over a rotten tree trunk, covered the clearing in three bounds, plunged into the fern-covered undergrowth and melted into the thicket. It moved swiftly and noiselessly, now running, now leaping like a huge grasshopper.
The Saga of the Witcher Page 208
