The Last Wish (7 page)

'Have a look.'

The creature took the medallion in his paw, lifted it up to his eyes, tightening the chain around Geralt's neck a little.

'The animal has an unpleasant expression. What is it?'

'My guild's badge.'

'Ah, you make muzzles, no doubt. This way, please. Light!'

The centre of the large room, completely devoid of windows, was taken up by a huge oak table, empty apart from an enormous brass candlestick, slowly turning green and covered with trickles of hardened wax. At the monster's command the candles lit and flickered, brightening the interior a little.

One wall was hung with weapons, compositions of round shields, crossed partisans, javelins and guisarmes, heavy sabres and axes. Half of the adjacent wall was taken up by an enormous fireplace, above which hung rows of flaking and peeling portraits. The wall facing the entrance was filled with hunting trophies - elks and stag antlers whose branching racks threw long shadows across the grinning mounted heads of wild boar, bear and lynx, over the ruffled and frayed wings of eagles and hawks. The place of honour was filled by a rock dragon's head, tainted brown, damaged and leaking stuffing. Geralt examined it more closely.

'My grandpa killed it,' said the monster, throwing a huge log into the depths of the fireplace.

'It was probably the last one in the vicinity when it got itself killed. Sit, my dear guest. You're hungry?'

'I won't deny it, dear host.'

The monster sat at the table, lowered his head, clasped his hairy paws over his stomach, muttered something while twiddling his enormous thumbs, then suddenly roared, thumping the table with his paw. Dishes and platters rattled like pewter and silver, chalices jingled like crystal. There was a smell of roast meat, garlic, marjoram and nutmeg. Geralt did not show any surprise.

'Yes.' The monster rubbed his hands. 'This is better than servants, isn't it? Help yourself, dear guest. Here is some fowl,

here some boar ham, here terrine of ... I don't know what. Something. Here we have some hazel grouse. Pox, no, it's partridge. I got the spells muddled up. Eat up, eat up. This is proper, real food, don't worry.'

'I'm not worried.' Geralt tore the fowl in two.

'I forgot,' snorted the monster, 'that you're not timid. What shall I call you?'

'Geralt. And your name, dear host?'

'Nivellen. But they call me Degen or Fanger around here. And they use me to frighten children.'

The monster poured the contents of an enormous chalice down his throat, after which he sank his fingers in the terrine, tearing half of it from the bowl in one go.

'Frighten children,' repeated Geralt with his mouth full. 'Without any reason, no doubt?'

'Of course not. Your health, Geralt!'

'And yours, Nivellen.'

'How's the wine? Have you noticed that it's made from grapes and not apples? But if you don't like it I'll conjure up a different one.'

'Thank you, it's not bad. Are your magical powers innate?'

'No. I've had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don't know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable.'

'It's something. And this . . . trap, as you call it, have you had it long?'

'Twelve years.'

'How did it happen?'

'What's it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine.'

'With pleasure. It's got nothing to do with me. I'm just asking out of curiosity.'

'An acceptable reason,' the monster said, and laughed loudly. 'But I don't accept it. It's got nothing to do with you and that's

that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little I'll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?'

Beneath the dust and spider-webs a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.

'Can you see it?' repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.

'I can.'

'Who are you?'

'I don't understand.'

'You don't understand?' The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat's. 'My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I'm not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn't do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I'm asking you plainly: are you human?'

Geralt didn't lower his eyes. 'If that's the way you put it,' he answered after a moment's silence, 'then, not quite.'

'Ah. Surely it won't be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?'

'A witcher.'

'Ah,' Nivellen repeated after a moment. 'If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way - they kill monsters for money.'

'You remember correctly.'

Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upwards in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.

Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. 'Let's assume,' he said finally, 'that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let's assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won't stop me; I'll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it's teeth that'll decide. What do you think,

witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other's throats?'

Geralt, steadying the carafe's pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.

'Yeeees,' said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. 'One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It'll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?'

'No one. I'm here by accident.'

'You're not lying, by any chance?'

'I'm not in the habit of lying.'

'And what are you in the habit of doing? I've heard about witchers — they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They're taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them. They're turned into monsters in order to kill other monsters.

I've heard it said it's high time someone started hunting witchers, as there are fewer and fewer monsters and more and more witchers. Do have some partridge before it's completely cold.'

Nivellen took the partridge from the dish, put it between his jaws and crunched it like a piece of toast, bones cracking as they were crushed between his teeth.

'Why don't you say anything?' he asked indistinctly, swallowing. 'How much of the rumours about you witchers is true?'

'Practically nothing.'

'And what's a lie?'

'That there are fewer and fewer monsters.'

'True. There's a fair number of them.' Nivellen bared his fangs. 'One is sitting in front of you wondering if he did the right thing by inviting you in. I didn't like your guild badge right from the start, dear guest.'

'You aren't a monster, Nivellen,' the witcher said dryly.

'Pox, that's something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding?

A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? No? Maybe I'm the virtue that a miller's buxom daughter lost in spring? Well, Geralt, tell me what I am. Gan't you see I'm shaking with curiosity?'

'You're not a monster. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to touch this silver tray. And in no way could you hold my medallion.'

'Ha!' Nivellen roared so powerfully the candle flames fell horizontal for a moment. 'Today, very clearly, is a day for revealing great and terrible secrets! Now I'm going to be told that I grew these ears because I didn't like milky porridge as a child!'

'No, Nivellen,' said Geralt calmly. 'It happened because of a spell. I'm sure you know who cast that spell.'

'And what if I do?'

'In many cases a spell can be uncast.'

'You, as a witcher, can uncast spells in many cases?'

'I can. Do you want me to try?'

'No. I don't.' The monster opened his jaws and poked out his tongue, two span long, and very red. 'Surprised you, hasn't it?'

'That it has,' admitted Geralt.

The monster giggled and lounged in his armchair. 'I knew that would,' he said. 'Pour yourself some more, get comfortable and I'll tell you the whole story. Witcher or not, you've got an honest face and I feel like talking. Pour yourself more.'

'There's none left.'

'Pox on it!' The monster cleared his throat, then thumped the table with his paw again. A large earthenware demijohn in a wicker basket appeared next to the two empty carafes, from nowhere. Nivellen tore the sealing wax off with his teeth.

As no doubt you've noticed,' he began, pouring the wine, 'this is quite a remote area. It's a long way to the nearest human settlement. It's because, you see, my father, and my grandfather too, in his time, didn't make themselves particularly loved by our neighbours or the merchants using the highway. If anyone went astray here and my father spotted them from the tower, they lost -at best — their fortune. And a couple of the nearer settlements were burnt because Father decided the levies were being paid tardily. Not many people liked my father. Except for me, naturally. I cried awfully when what was left of my father after a blow from a two-handed sword was brought home on a cart one day. Grandpa didn't take part in robbery any more because, ever since he was hit on the head with a morningstar, he had a terrible stutter. He dribbled and rarely made it to the privy on time. As their heir, I had to lead the gang.

'I was young at the time,' Nivellen continued, 'a real milksop, so the lads in the crew wound me around their little fingers in a flash. I was as much in command of them as a fat piglet is of a pack of wolves. We soon began doing things which Father would never have allowed, had he been alive. I'll spare you the details and get straight to the point. One day we took ourselves as far as Gelibol, near Mirt, and robbed a temple. A young priestess was there too.'

'Which temple, Nivellen?'

'Pox only knows, but it must have been a bad one. There were skulls and bones on the altar, I remember, and a green fire was burning. It stank like nobody's business. But to the point. The lads overpowered the priestess and stripped her, then said I had to become a man. Well, I became a man, stupid little snot that I was, and while I was achieving manhood the priestess spat into my face and screamed something.'

'What?'

'That I was a monster in human skin, that I'd be a monster in a monster's skin, something about love, blood ... I can't remember. She must have had the dagger, a little one, hidden in her hair. She killed herself and then—

'We fled from there, Geralt, I'm telling you - we nearly wore our horses out. It was a bad temple.'

'Go on.'

'Then it was as the priestess had said. A few days later, I woke up and as the servants saw me, they screamed and took to their heels. I went to the mirror . . . You see, Geralt, I panicked, had some sort of an attack, I remember it almost through a haze. To put it briefly, corpses fell. Several. I used whatever came to hand - and I'd suddenly become very strong. And the house helped as best it could: doors slammed, furniture flew in the air, fires broke out. Whoever could get out ran away in a-panic: my aunt and cousin, the lads from the crew. What am I saying? Even the dogs howled and cowered. My cat, Glutton, ran away. Even my aunt's parrot kicked the bucket out of fear. I was alone, roaring, howling, going mad, smashing whatever came to hand, mainly mirrors.'

Nivellen paused, sighed and sniffed. .

'When the attack was over,' he resumed after a while, 'it was already too late. I was alone. I couldn't explain to anyone that only my appearance had changed, that although in this horrible shape I was just a stupid youngster, sobbing over the servants' bodies in an empty manor. I was afraid they'd come back and kill me before I could explain. But nobody returned.'

The monster grew silent for a moment and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 'I don't want to go back to those first months, Geralt. It still leaves me shaking when I recall them. I'll get to the point. For a long time, a very long time, I sat in the manor, quiet as a mouse, not stirring from the place. If anyone appeared, which rarely happened, I wouldn't go out. I'd tell the house to slam the shutters a couple of times, or I'd roar through the gargoyle, and that was usually enough for the would-be guest to leave in a hurry. So that's how it was, until one day I looked out of the window one pale dawn and - what did I see? Some trespasser stealing a rose from my aunt's bush. And it isn't just any old rosebush: these are blue roses from Nazair. It was Grandfather who brought the seedlings. I flew into a fury and jumped outside.

'The fat trespasser, when he got his voice back - he'd lost it when he saw me — squealed that he only wanted a few flowers for his daughter, that I should spare him, spare his life and his health. I was just ready to kick him out of the main gate when I remembered something.

Stories Lenka, my nanny - the old bag used to tell me. Pox on it, I thought, if pretty girls turn frogs into princes, or the other way round, then maybe . . . Maybe there's a grain of truth in these stories, a chance ... I leapt four yards, roared so loud wild vine tumbled from the wall, and I yelled “Your daughter or your life!” Nothing better came to mind. The merchant, for he was a merchant, began to weep, then confessed that his daughter was only eight. Are you laughing?'

'No.'

'I didn't know whether to laugh or cry over my shitty fate. I felt sorry for the old trader. I couldn't watch him shake like that. I invited him inside, made him welcome and, when he was leaving I poured gold and precious stones into his bag. There was still a fair fortune in the cellar from Father's day. I hadn't quite known what to do with it, so I could allow myself this gesture. The merchant beamed and thanked me so profusely that he slobbered all over himself. He must have boasted about his adventure somewhere because not two weeks had gone by when another merchant appeared. He had a pretty large bag ready with him. And a daughter. Also pretty large.'