‘Ciri,’ whispered Geralt who was kneeling next to her. ‘Wake up.’
‘A battle . . .’ she moaned, sitting up. ‘Geralt, what—’
‘It’s all over. Thanks to the troops from Ban Glean which came to our aid.’
‘You weren’t . . .’ she whispered, closing her eyes, ‘you weren’t neutral . . .’
‘No, I wasn’t. But you’re alive. Triss is alive.’
‘How is she?’
‘She hit her head falling out of the wagon when Yarpen tried to rescue it. But she’s fine now. Treating the wounded.’
Ciri cast her eyes around. Amidst the smoke from the last wagons, burning out, silhouettes of armed men flickered. And all around lay chests and barrels. Some of were shattered and the contents scattered. They had contained ordinary, grey field stones. She stared at them, astounded.
‘Aid for Demawend from Aedirn.’ Yarpen Zigrin, standing nearby, ground his teeth. ‘Secret and exceptionally important aid. A convoy of special significance!’
‘It was a trap?’
The dwarf turned, looked at her, at Geralt. Then he looked back at the stones pouring from the barrels and spat.
‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘A trap.’
‘For the Squirrels?’
‘No.’
The dead were arranged in a neat row. They lay next to each other, not divided – elves, humans and dwarves. Yannick Brass was amongst them. The dark-haired elf in the high boots was there. And the dwarf with his black, plaited beard, glistening with dried blood. And next to them . . .
‘Paulie!’ sobbed Regan Dahlberg, holding his brother’s head on his knees. ‘Paulie! Why?’
No one said anything. No one. Even those who knew why. Regan turned his contorted face, wet with tears, towards them.
What will I tell our mother?’ he wailed. What am I going to say to her?’
No one said anything.
Not far away, surrounded by soldiers in the black and gold of Kaedwen, lay Wenck. He was breathing with difficulty and every breath forced bubbles of blood to his lips. Triss knelt next to him and a knight in shining armour stood over them both.
‘Well?’ asked the knight. ‘Lady enchantress? Will he live?’
‘I’ve done everything I can.’ Triss got to her feet, pinched her lips. ‘But . . .’
‘What?’
‘They used this.’ She showed him an arrow with a strange head to it and struck it against a barrel standing by them. The tip of the arrow fell apart, split into four barbed, hook-like needles. The knight cursed.
‘Fredegard . . .’ Wenck uttered with difficulty. ‘Fredegard, listen—’
‘You mustn’t speak!’ said Triss severely. ‘Or move! The spell is barely holding!’
‘Fredegard,’ the commissar repeated. A bubble of blood burst on his lips and another immediately appeared in its place. ‘We were wrong . . . Everyone was wrong. It’s not Yarpen . . . We suspected him wrongly … I vouch for him. Yarpen did not betray . . . Did not betr—’
‘Silence!’ shouted the knight. ‘Silence, Vilfrid! Hey, quick now, bring the stretcher! Stretcher!’
‘No need,’ the magician said hollowly, gazing at Wenck’s lips where no more bubbles appeared. Ciri turned away and pressed her face to Geralt’s side.
Fredegard drew himself up. Yarpen Zigrin did not look at him. He was looking at the dead. At Regan Dahlberg still kneeling over his brother.
‘It was necessary, Zigrin,’ said the knight. ‘This is war. There was an order. We had to be sure . . .’
Yarpen did not say anything. The knight lowered his eyes.
‘Forgive us,’ he whispered.
The dwarf slowly turned his head, looked at him. At Geralt. At Ciri. At them all. The humans.
‘What have you done to us?’ he asked bitterly. ‘What have you done to us? What have you made of us?’
No one answered him.
The eyes of the long-legged elf were glassy and dull. Her contorted lips were frozen in a soundless cry.
Geralt put his arms around Ciri. Slowly, he unpinned the white rose, spattered with dark stains, from her jerkin and, without a word, threw it on the Squirrel’s body.
‘Farewell,’ whispered Ciri. ‘Farewell, Rose of Shaerrawedd. Farewell and . . .’
‘And forgive us,’ added the witcher.
They roam the land, importunate and insolent, nominating themselves the stalkers of evil, vanquishers of werewolves and exterminators of spectres, extorting payment from the gullible and, on receipt of their ignoble earnings, moving on to dispense the same deceit in the near vicinity. The easiest access they find at cottages of honest, simple and unwitting peasants who readily ascribe all misfortune and ill events to spells, unnatural creatures and monsters, the doings of windsprites or evil spirits. Instead of praying to the gods, instead of bearing rich offerings to the temple, such a simpleton is ready to give his last penny to the base witcher, believing the witcher, the godless changeling, will turn around his fate and save him from misfortune.
Anonymous, Monstrum, or Description of the Witcher
I have nothing against witchers. Let them hunt vampires. As long as they pay taxes.
Radovid
III
the Bold, King of Redania
If you thirst for justice, hire a witcher.
Grafitti on the wall of the Faculty of Law, University of Oxenfurt
‘Did you say something?’
The boy sniffed and pushed his over-sized velvet hat, a pheasant’s feather hanging rakishly to the side, back from his forehead.
‘Are you a knight?’ he repeated, gazing at Geralt with wide eyes as blue as the sky.
‘No,’ replied the witcher, surprised that he felt like answering. ‘I’m not.’
‘But you’ve got a sword! My daddy’s one of King Foltest’s knights. He’s got a sword, too. Bigger than yours!’
Geralt leaned his elbows on the railing and spat into the water eddying at the barge’s wake.
‘You carry it on your back,’ the little snot persisted. The hat slipped down over his eyes again.
‘What?’
‘The sword. On your back. Why have you got the sword on your back?’
‘Because someone stole my oar.’
The little snot opened his mouth, demanding that the impressive gaps left by milk teeth be admired.
‘Move away from the side,’ said the witcher. ‘And shut your mouth or flies will get in.’
The boy opened his mouth even wider.
‘Grey-haired yet stupid!’ snarled the little snot’s mother, a richly attired noblewoman, pulling her offspring away by the beaver collar of his cloak. ‘Come here, Everett! I’ve told you so many times not to be familiar with the passing rabble!’
Geralt sighed, gazing at the outline of islands and islets looming through the morning mist. The barge, as ungainly as a tortoise, trudged along at an appropriate speed that being
the speed of a tortoise – dictated by the lazy Delta current. The passengers, mostly merchants and peasants, were dozing on their baggage. The witcher unfurled the scroll once more and returned to Ciri’s letter.
. . . I sleep in a large hall called a Dormitorium and my bed is terribly big, I tell you. I’m with the Intermediary Girls. There are twelve of us but I’m most friendly with Eumeid, Katye and Iola the Second. Whereas today I Ate Broth and the worst is that sometimes we have to Fast and get up very early at Dawn. Earlier than in Kaer Morhen. I will write the rest tomorrow for we shall presently be having Prayers. No one ever prayed in Kaer Morhen, I wonder why we have to here. No doubt because this is a Temple.
Geralt. Mother Nenneke has read and said I must not write Silly Things and write clearly without mistakes. And about what I’m studying and that I feel well and healthy. I feel well and am healthy if unfortunately Hungry, but Soone be Dinner. And Mother Nenneke also said write that prayer has never harmed anybody yet, neither me nor, certainly, you.
Geralt, I have some free time again, I will write therefore that I am studying. To read and write correct Runes. History. Nature. Poetry and Prose. To express myself well in the Common Speech and in the Elder Speech. I am best at the Elder Speech, I can also write Elder Runes. I will write something for you and you will see for yourself. Elaine blath, Feainnewedd. That meant: Beautiful flower, child of the Sun. You see for yourself that I can. And also—
Now I can write again for I have found a new quill for the old one broke. Mother Nenneke read this and praised me that it was correct. That I am obedient, she told me to write, and that you should not worry. Don’t worry, Geralt.
Again I have some time so I will write what happened. When we were feeding the turkey hens, I, Iola and Katye, One Enormous Turkey attacked us, a red neck it had and was Terrible Horrible. First it attacked Iola and then it wanted to attack me but I was not afraid because it was smaller and slower than the Pendulum
anyway. I dodged and did a pirouette and walloped it twice with a switch until it Made Off. Mother Nenneke does not allow me to carry My Sword here, a pity, for I would have shown that Turkey what I learned in Kaer Morhen. I already know that in the Elder Runes it would be written Caer a’Muirehen and that it means Keep of the Elder Sea. So no doubt that is why there are Shells and Snails there as well as Fish imprinted on the stones. And Cintra is correctly written Xin’trea. Whereas my name comes from Zireael for that means Swallow and that means that . . .
‘Are you busy reading?’
He raised his head.
‘I am. So? Has anything happened? Someone noticed something?’
‘No, nothing,’ replied the skipper, wiping his hands on his leather jerkin. ‘There’s calm on the water. But there’s a mist and we’re already near Crane Islet—’
‘I know. It’s the sixth time I’ve sailed this way, Boatbug, not counting the return journeys. I’ve come to know the trail. My eyes are open, don’t worry.’
The skipper nodded and walked away to the prow, stepping over travellers’ packages and bundles stacked everywhere. Squeezed in amidships, the horses snorted and pounded their hooves on the deck-boards. They were in the middle of the current, in dense fog. The prow of the barge ploughed the surface of water lilies, parting their clumps. Geralt turned back to his reading.
. . . that means I have an elven name. But I am not, after all, an elf, Geralt, there is also talk about the Squirrels here. Sometimes even the Soldiers come and ask questions and say that we must not treat wounded elves. I have not squealed a word to anyone about what happened in spring, don’t worry. And I also remember to practise, don’t think otherwise. I go to the park and train when I have time. But not always, for I also have to work in the kitchen or in the orchard like all the girls. And we also have a terrible amount of studying to do. But never mind, I will study. After all, you too studied in the Temple, Mother Nenneke told me. And she
also told me that just any idiot can brandish a sword but a witcher -girl must be wise.
Geralt, you promised to come. Come. Your Ciri
PS Come, come.
PS II. Mother Nenneke told me to end with Praise be to Great Melitele, may her blessing and favour always go with you. And may nothing happen to you. Ciri
I’d like to go to Ellander, he thought, putting away the letter. But it’s dangerous. I might lead them to— These letters have got to end. Nenneke makes use of temple mail but still . . . Damn it, it’s too risky.
‘Hmmm . . . Hmm . . .’
‘What now, Boatbug? We’ve passed Crane Islet.’
‘And without incident, thank the gods,’ sighed the skipper. ‘Ha, Geralt, I see this is going to be another peaceful trip. Any moment now the mist is going to clear and when the sun peeps through, the fear is over. The monster won’t show itself in the sunlight.’
‘That won’t worry me in the least.’
‘So I should think.’ Boatbug smiled wryly. ‘The company pays you by the trip. Regardless whether something happens or not a penny falls into your pouch, doesn’t it?’
‘You ask as if you didn’t know. What is this envy talking? That I earn money standing leaning against the side, watching the lapwings? And what do you get paid for? The same thing. For being on board. When everything is going smoothly you haven’t got anything to do. You stroll from prow to stern, grinning at the women or trying to entice merchants to have a drink. I’ve been hired to be on board too. Just in case. The transport is safe because a witcher is on board. The cost of the witcher is included in the price of the trip, right?’
‘Well, that certainly is true,’ sighed the skipper. ‘The company won’t lose out. I know them well. This is the fifth year I sail the Delta for them from Foam to Novigrad, from Novigrad to Foam.
Well, to work, witcher, sir. You go on leaning against the side and I’ll go for a stroll from prow to stern.’
The mist thinned a little. Geralt extracted another letter from his bag, one he had recently received from a strange courier. He had already read it about thirty times.
Dear friend . . .
The witcher swore quietly, looking at the sharp, angular, even runes drawn with energetic sweeps of the pen, faultlessly reflecting the author’s mood. He felt once again the desire to try to bite his own backside in fury. When he was writing to the enchantress a month ago he had spent two nights in a row contemplating how best to begin. Finally, he had decided on ‘Dear friend’. Now he had his just deserts.
Dear friend, your unexpected letter – which I received not quite three years after we last saw each other — has given me much joy. My joy is all the greater as various rumours have been circulating about your sudden and violent death. It is a good thing that you have decided to disclaim them by writing to me; it is a good thing, too, that you are doing so so soon. From your letter it appears that you have lived a peaceful, wonderfully boring life, devoid of all sensation. These days such a life is a real privilege, dear friend, and I am happy that you have managed to achieve it.
I was touched by the sudden concern which you deigned to show as to my health, dear friend. I hasten with the news that, yes, I now feel well; the period of indisposition is behind me, I have dealt with the difficulties, the description of which I shall not bore you with.