The Sword of Destiny (11 page)

Yennefer bit her lip, raising her leg once more. The buttercup yellow wagon, accompanied by a rousing music coming from somewhere above, was reduced to a cloud of smoke of the same colour; all of the crew, dazed, crashed to the grass, forming a picturesque heap.

The wheels of the third wagon became square: the horses reared up, the wagon collapsed in on itself and the Holopole militiamen were ejected. Out of pure spite, Yennefer moved her leg again, and with an additional charm, transformed all of them at random into turtles, geese, millipedes, pink flamingos or suckling pigs. The Zerricanians expertly and methodically dispatched the others.

The dragon, finally tearing the net to pieces, jumped up, flapping its wings. It roared and flew like an arrow in pursuit of Kozojed, who had succeeded in escaping the massacre. The shoemaker ran like a gazelle, but the dragon was faster. Geralt, seeing its open maw and flashing teeth as sharp as daggers, turned away. He heard a bloodcurdling scream then a terrible crunch. Jaskier stifled a cry. Yennefer, pale as a sheet, doubled over and turned around to vomit under the wagon.

The silence which followed was broken only by the croaking, squawking and shrieking of the survivors of the Holopole militia.

Vea stood over Yennefer, legs wide apart, wearing a nasty smile. The Zerricanian drew her sword. Yennefer, pale, raised her leg.

"No," interrupted Borch, alias Three Jackdaws, sat on a stone. He held in his arms the young dragon, calm and happy.

"We will not kill Lady Yennefer," the dragon Villentretenmerth continued. "There's no point now. Besides, we are now grateful to Lady Yennefer for her invaluable help. Release them, Vea."

"Did you know, Geralt?" Jaskier murmured, rubbing his numb hands. "Did you know? There's an ancient ballad about a golden dragon. Golden dragons can..."

"can take all forms," completed the witcher, "even human form. I've also heard about it, but I didn't believe it."

"Mr. Yarpen Zigrin!" the dragon called out to the dwarf hanging on the vertical cliff wall, about two hundred cubits above the ground. "What are you looking for up there? Marmots? They are not to your taste, if I remember rightly. Get down, I beg you, and busy yourself with the Reavers. They need assistance. Killing is over for today. It's better for everybody."

Jaskier tried to wake the still unconscious Dorregaray, casting anxious glances at the Zerricanians who continued to survey the battlefield attentively. Geralt salved and dressed Yennefer's burnt ankles. The sorceress hissed in pain and muttered curses under her breath.

Having finished with this task, Geralt got up.

"Stay here," he said, "I need to talk to the dragon."

Yennefer, wincing, rose.

"I'll go with you, Geralt." She took him by the hand. "Can I? Please, Geralt."

"With me, Yen? I thought that..."

"Don't think."

She clung to his shoulder.

"Yen?"

"Everything is okay now, Geralt."

He looked into her eyes, which were now as warm as they once were in the past. He bent and kissed her on the lips. They were hot, soft and yearning. As they once were in the past.

They approached the dragon. Yennefer, supported by Geralt, made a very low courtesy as if she were before a king, holding the hemline of her dress with the tips of her fingers.

"Three Jack-... Villentretenmerth...," stated the witcher.

"My name means literally in your language ' three black birds '," explained Borch.

The young dragon clutched Three Jackdaws' forearm with its claws and stretched out his neck to receive a caress.

"Order and Chaos," said Villentretenmerth, smiling. "Remember, Geralt? Chaos represents aggression, while order represents the means to protect itself from it. Shouldn't we go to the ends of the earth to stand against aggression and evil, Geralt? Especially when, as you said, the wage is attractive. As it was in this case. It was the treasure of the female dragon

Myrgatabrakke, poisoned near Holopole. It was she who called me so that I could help her to neutralize the evil that threatened her. Myrgatabrakke flew off shortly after Eyck de Denesle had been removed from the field of battle. She had time to escape during your debates and quarrels, leaving me her treasure, in other words, my wage."

The young dragon chirped and flapped its wings. "Therefore, you..."

"Yes," interrupted the dragon. "It's necessary in this day and age. The creatures that you commonly call monsters have felt, for some time, more and more threatened by humans. They don't know how to defend themselves and they need a protector... a witcher."

"And the goal at the end of the path?"

"Here it is." Villentretenmerth raised his forearm; frightened, the young dragon started to chirp. "Here is my goal, my purpose. Thanks to him, I shall prove, Geralt of Rivia, that there is no limit as to what's possible. You too, one day, will discover such a purpose, witcher. Even those who are different deserve to live. Goodbye, Geralt. Goodbye, Yennefer."

The sorceress courtesied once again, steadying herself firmly on Geralt's shoulder. Villentretenmerth stood up and looked at her, his face very serious.

"Excuse my boldness and my frankness, Yennefer. It's written on your faces, I don't even need to read your thoughts. You were made for each other, you and the witcher. But nothing will come of it. Nothing. I'm sorry."

"I know." Yennefer turned a little pale. "I know, Villentretenmerth. But I too would like to believe that there is no limit as to what's possible or at least that this limit is very distant."

Vea went up to Geralt. She whispered to him, touching his shoulder. The dragon laughed.

"Geralt, Vea wants you to know that she will never forget the tub at the Pensive Dragon. She hopes that she will see you again."

"What?" Yennefer asked, blinking anxiously.

"Nothing," the witcher replied quickly. "Villentretenmerth..."

"I'm listening, Geralt of Rivia."

"You can take all forms. Whatever you wish?"

"Yes."

"Why transform into a human? Why Borch, with the coat of arms of three black birds?"

The dragon gave him a broad smile.

"It's hard for me to say, Geralt, in what circumstances our respective forefathers had their first meeting, but I know that for dragons nothing is more loathsome than man. Man awakens in dragons an instinctive and irrational hatred. I am an exception. To me... you are quite likeable. Goodbye."

It was not a gradual transformation, like the hazy disappearance of an illusion. It took place in the blink of an eye. In place of where there was, a moment earlier, a curly-haired knight in a tunic adorned with three black birds there now appeared a golden dragon, stretching his long slender neck gracefully. Bowing his head, the dragon unfurled wings that shone brilliant gold in the rays of the sun. Yennefer sighed loudly.

Vea, already in the saddle next to Tea, waved goodbye.

"Vea," said the witcher, "you were right."

"Hmm?"

"He is definitely the most beautiful."

A Shard of Ice

i

The dead sheep, swollen and bloated, its four rigid legs raised towards the sky, gave a convulsion. Geralt, sitting on his haunches against the wall, drew his sword slowly, taking care that the blade did not make a sound as it left the sheath. Ten paces away from him, the pile of refuse suddenly swelled and heaved. The witcher had just enough time to leap up and avoid the wave of refuse that had been set in motion and now poured forth violently.

A tentacle with a blunt, tapering end suddenly emerged from the refuse and shot forward to meet him with incredible speed. The witcher jumped onto the remnants of a broken cabinet that lay on top of a pile of rotting vegetables; he regained his balance and struck the tentacle with his sword, quickly and cleanly, severing the suckers with the staggering blow. He immediately leapt backwards, but slipped on the boards, landing thigh-deep in the rotting mass.

The mountain of trash exploded like a geyser, expelling a dense and foul-smelling sludge of kitchen waste, rotting rags and whitish strands of sauerkraut; from beneath there appeared a huge and bulbous body, shapeless like a grotesque potato, lashing the air with its three tentacles and its mutilated stump.

Geralt, still stuck in the sludge, twisted his hips, smoothly severed another tentacle with a broad stroke. The remaining two tentacles, as thick as boughs, fell heavily onto him, driving him deeper into the refuse. The monster's body barrelled towards him, ploughing through the refuse. Geralt saw the hideous bulb split open, revealing a gaping maw full of enormous, jagged teeth.

He let the tentacles grab him around the waist and was pulled out of the mess with a squelching noise. He was drawn towards the beast as it advanced through the refuse, reeling itself nearer; it's serrated jaws gnashed wildly and furiously. When he got close to the strange mouth, the witcher struck at the beast, wielding his sword with both hands, the blade sliding slowly and casually into its flesh. It emitted a choking, sickly sweet stench. The monster started to hiss and tremble; it released its prey, tentacles waving in the air convulsively. Once again mired in the filth, Geralt struck again, body twisting, so that the blade crunched and ground hideously against the monster's snarled teeth. The creature gurgled and collapsed, but then suddenly surged upwards, hissing and splashing the witcher with stinking slime. Desperately wading through the sludge, Geralt dragged himself forward, pushing the refuse aside with his torso before launching himself outwards. He then struck with all his might, blade cleaving downwards between the monster's two faintly phosphorescent eyes, slicing its body from top to bottom. The monster groaned with pain; it shuddered, spilling forth a pile of waste like a punctured bladder and emitting warm waves of palpable stench. The tentacles twitched and trembled amongst the decay.

The witcher scrambled out of the thick sludge, finding himself standing on a swaying but solid footing. He felt something sticky and repulsive that had seeped into his boot creep further up his calf. To the well, he thought, so I can clean this filth off as quickly as possible. Wash myself clean. The monster's tentacles slapped loudly and wetly on the refuse once more, then fell still.

A shooting star flashed across the sky, for one second enlivening the black firmament studded with unmoving bright points. The witcher didn't make a wish.

He breathed heavily, harshly, feeling the effects of the elixirs he had drunk before the battle subsiding. Adjacent to the city walls, the huge heap of refuse and debris sloping steeply down toward the glittering ribbon of the river now looked exotic and picturesque in the light of the stars. The witcher spat.

The monster was dead. It had now become part of the pile in which it had lived.

A second shooting star passed.

"Trash," the witcher uttered with difficulty, "Nothing but muck, filth and shit."

II

"You stink, Geralt," Yennefer frowned, not turning from the mirror before which she removed the make-up from her eyelids and lashes. "Take a bath".

"There's no water," he said, peering into the tub.

"We'll sort something out." The sorceress stood up and opened wide the window. "Would you prefer seawater or fresh water?"

"Sea, for a change."

Yennefer quickly threw open her arms, then cast a spell by performing a swift, intricate gesture with her fingers. A strong wind blew through the open window, cool and damp. The shutters rattled as an irregular green sphere burst, whistling, into the room, disturbing the dust. The tub foamed with water, heaving restlessly, beating against the edges and splashing out onto the floor. The sorceress returned to her original task.

"Did it go well?" she asked. "What was it?"

"A zeugl, as I thought." Geralt pulled off his boots, threw off his clothes and plunged a foot into the tub. "Damn, Yen, it's cold. Can't you heat it up?"

"No." The sorceress said. Bringing her face nearer to the mirror, she placed a few drops of something in her eye with a pipette. "That type of spell is terribly exhausting and makes me feel sick. Anyway, after the elixirs, the cold water will do you good."

Geralt did not argue. Arguing with Yennefer was pointless.

"Did the zeugl cause you difficulty?"

The sorceress plunged the pipette into the bottle and moistened her other eye, grimacing comically.

"Not especially."

They heard a loud noise on the other side of the opened window, the sharp crack of breaking wood and a slurred falsetto voice, brazenly reciting the chorus of a popular bawdy song.

"A zeugl." The sorceress grabbed a second bottle from amongst the imposing battery of containers that stood on the table and drew out the cork. The smell of lilac and gooseberries filled room. "You see, even in the city it's easy for a witcher to find work. You don't have to roam the wilds. Istredd maintains that after the extinction of a forest or marsh creature, another one always replaces it; a new mutation adapted to the artificial environment created by humans."

As usual, Geralt frowned when Yennefer mentioned Istredd. The witcher was starting to get fed up with her going on about the genius of Istredd. Even when Istredd was right.

"Istredd is right," continued Yennefer massaging her cheeks and eyelids with the potion that smelt of lilac and gooseberries. "You've seen it yourself: pseudo-rats in sewers and cellars, zeugls in the refuse, platocorises in filthy ditches and drains, giant molluscs rampant in the mill ponds. It's almost symbiotic, don't you think?"

And ghouls in the graveyards devouring the dead a day after the funeral, he thought, rinsing the soap from his body. Utterly symbiotic.

"Yes..." The sorceress pushed back the bottles and jars. "Even in city, there's work for a witcher. I think you'll eventually settle down permanently in some market town, Geralt."

The devil take me first! he thought, but kept it to himself. To contradict Yennefer would have inevitably led to a quarrel and quarrelling with Yennefer could be dangerous.

"Have you finished, Geralt?"

"Yes."

"Get out of the tub."

Without getting up, Yennefer casually waved her hand and cast a spell. The water from the tub, along with that which spilled onto the floor and dripped from Geralt came together in a translucent sphere, then flew, whistling, out of the window. There was a loud splash.

"A plague upon you, you son of a whore!" came an angry shout from below."Don't you know where to chuck out your piss? May you be eaten alive by lice! Until you are dead!"

The sorceress closed the window.

"Damn, Yen," the witcher chuckled. "Couldn't you throw the water away somewhere else?"

"I could have," she muttered, "but I didn't feel like it."

She took a lantern from the table and approached the witcher. Her white nightgown, clinging to every slight movement of her body, cut an incredibly enchanting vision. More so than if she were naked, he thought.

"I want to examine you," she said. "The zeugl could have wounded you."

"It didn't wound me. I would've felt it."

"After the elixirs? Don't make me laugh. You wouldn't have felt a fracture unless the bone was poking out and catching on things. And the zeugl could have given you anything including tetanus and blood poisoning. You have to be checked. Turn around."

He felt the warmth of the lantern on his body, and the occasional caress of her hair.

"You seem to be alright," she said. "Lie down before the potions knock you down. Those potions are terribly dangerous. They'll eventually kill you."

"I have to take them before a fight."

Yennefer did not respond. She sat before the mirror once again, combing her long, black, shiny curls. She always combed her hair before going to bed. Geralt thought it strange, but he loved to watch her do it. He suspected that Yennefer knew this.

He suddenly felt very cold, the elixirs making him shiver violently. His neck grew stiff and the effects finally settled in the pit of his stomach in swirling eddies of nausea. Her swore under his breath and collapsed on the bed, his gaze still on Yennefer.

A movement in the corner of the room caught his eye and he looked closer. Nailed crookedly to the wall were some deer antlers, covered in cobwebs, atop which perched a small black bird.

Turning its head sideways, the bird fixed the witcher with a yellow, unmoving stare.

"What's that, Yen? Where did it come from?"

"What?" Yennefer turned around. "Oh, that! It's a kestrel."

"A kestrel? Kestrels are speckled russet. That one's black."

"It's a magical kestrel. I made it myself."

"Why?"

"I need it for something," she replied coldly.

Geralt didn't ask any more questions, knowing that Yennefer would not answer them.

"Are you going to see Istredd tomorrow?"

The sorceress pushed back the bottles on the table, placed her comb in a small casket and closed the leaves of the triptych mirror.

"Yes, I'm going in the morning. Why?"

"Nothing."

She lay next to him without putting out the lantern. She was unable to sleep in the dark, so she never put out the light. Whether the lamp was a night light or candle, it always had to burn to the last. Always. Another eccentricity. Yennefer had an incredible amount of eccentricities.

"Yen?"

"Yes?"

"When are we going back on the road?"

"Stop going on about it." Yennefer pulled on the eiderdown roughly. "We've been here three days and you've already asked this question about thirty times. I told you: I have business here in the city."

"With Istredd?"

"Yes."

He sighed and embraced her without concealing his intentions.

"Hey!" she whispered. "You took the elixirs..."

"So what?"

"Nothing." she giggled like a teenager.

She nestled against him then wriggled around so that she could remove her nightgown more easily. Delighting in her nakedness, as usual Geralt felt a shiver go down his spine and a tingling in his fingers as they came into contact with Yennefer's bare skin. His lips lightly touched her breasts, rounded and delicate with nipples so pale they were only apparent by their prominence. His hands got lost in the tangle of her hair, sweet with the fragrance of lilac and gooseberries.

Yennefer gave herself up to his caresses, purring like a cat, wrapping her legs around his hips.

The witcher soon realised that he had, as usual, overestimated his resistance to the elixirs and had forgotten their negative effects on the body.

Maybe it's not the elixirs, he thought. Maybe it's down to battle fatigue and the ever present risk of death. It's a fatigue that's so routine, I often forget about it. My body, even though it's

enhanced, can't fight that routine. It reacts in the usual way, but the only trouble is that it happens when you don't want it to. Damn it...

As usual, Yennefer didn't allow herself to lose heart over such a trifle. He felt her touch and heard her soft murmur in his ear. As usual, he thought of the countless number of times she'd needed to use this very practical spell. And then he thought of it no more.

As usual, it was extraordinary.

He gazed at her mouth, the corners quivering in an involuntary smile. He knew this smile well; more a smile of triumph than happiness. He never asked her about it. He knew that she wouldn't have answered him.

The black kestrel, perched on the deer's antlers, flapped its wings and snapped its crooked beak. Yennefer turned her head and sighed with great sadness.

"Yen?"

"Nothing, Geralt." She kissed him. "It's Nothing."

The lantern shone with a flickering light. In the wall, a mouse scratched and a beetle rustled quietly and rhythmically in the chest of drawers.

"Yen?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's get away from here. I have a bad feeling about this place. This city has a malignant effect on me."

The sorceress turned on her side and caressed his cheek, pushing away strands of hair. Her fingers slid lower, touching the calloused scar that ran across his neck.

"Do you know what the name of this city means? Aedd Gynvael?"

"No. Is it the language of the elves?"

"Yes. It means 'Shard of Ice'."

"That's strange, it doesn't suit this disgusting hell-hole."

"Amongst the elves," she whispered thoughtfully, "there is the legend of the Queen of Winter, travelling across the country through a blizzard on a sleigh drawn by white horses. She sows hard, sharp, tiny shards of ice as she goes and woe betide he should one of these shards pierce his eye or his heart. That someone is lost forever. Nothing will be able to cheer him, all that is not the pure white of snow will become for him ugly, hateful, disgusting. He will not know peace and, forsaking all, will follow the Queen in pursuit of his dream and his love. Of course, he will never find it and will die of sorrow. Apparently in this city, in ancient times, such a thing happened. It's a beautiful legend, isn't it?"

"The elves know how to dress everything up with pretty words," mumbled Geralt sleepily, tracing her shoulder with his lips. "It's not a legend, Yen. It's a beautiful way to describe the terrible phenomenon called the Wild Hunt, a curse apparent in certain lands. An irrational collective insanity drives people to follow the ghostly procession racing across the sky. I've seen it. Indeed, it's not uncommon in winter. I've been offered a lot of money to end the curse, but I didn't take it. Nothing can stand against the Wild Hunt..."

"Witcher," Yennefer murmured, kissing his cheek, "you possess not one ounce of romanticism. I... I love the legends of the elves; they're so beautiful. It's a pity that humans don't have such legends. Maybe one day they'll create some? But what will their legends be like? All around, everywhere you look, is dullness and uncertainty. Even something born of beauty soon leads to boredom and banality, commonplace, the human ritual, the tedious rhythm of life. Oh, Geralt, it's not easy being a sorceress, but in comparison with ordinary human existence... Geralt?"

She laid her head on his chest, feeling his slow, rhythmic breathing.

"Sleep," she whispered, "Sleep, witcher."

Ill

The city had a malignant effect on him.

From the moment he awoke, everything put him in a bad mood and roused his anger. Everything. He was annoyed that much of the morning had been wasted because he had overslept and annoyed at the absence of Yennefer who had left before he woke up.

She must have hurried, because her accoutrements, which were usually neatly put away in the caskets, had been left scattered across the table like dice thrown by a fortune-teller during a divination: brushes of fine hair - the largest to powder her face, the smaller to apply lipstick, the smaller still for the paint that Yennefer used on her eyelashes; pencils and sticks for her eyelids and eyebrows; tweezers and silver spoons; jars and bottles made of porcelain and milky-white glass containing, as he knew, potions and ointments made of commonplace ingredients such as soot, goose grease and carrot juice and dangerous ingredients such as the mysterious mandrake, antimony, belladonna, cannabis, dragon's blood and the concentrated venom of giant scorpions. And finally, the air was filled with the scent of lilac and gooseberries - the perfume she always wore.

Her presence was felt in these objects. In this scent.

But she was not there.

He went downstairs, feeling a growing anxiety and rising anger. At everything.

Angry at the cold and congealed scrambled eggs which the innkeeper, distracted from feeling up the girl who worked in the kitchen, served him. Particularly annoyed that the girl was barely twelve years old and tears stood in her eyes.

The warm spring weather and the joyful noise of street life did nothing to alleviate Geralt's mood. There was still nothing he liked about Aedd Gynvael, which was an unpleasant parody of all the small cities he had ever known - infinitely more noisy, more humid, dirtier and more annoying.