The Last Wish (21 page)

'The rest we know, or can guess,' nodded Calanthe. 'Especially that you didn't wait the fifteen years agreed upon with Roegner but turned my daughter's head before that. Pavetta! Since when?'

The princess lowered her head and raised a finger.

'There. You little sorceress. Right under my nose! Let me just find out who let him into the castle at night! Let me at the ladies-in-waiting you went gathering primroses with. Primroses, dammit! Well, what am I to do with you now?'

'Calanthe—' began Eist.

'Hold on, Tuirseach. I haven't finished yet. Duny, the matter's become very complicated.

You've been with Pavetta for a year now, and what? And nothing. So you negotiated the oath from the

wrong father. Destiny has made a fool of you. What irony, as Geralt of Rivia, present here, is wont to say.'

'To hell with destiny, oaths and irony,' grimaced Duny. 'I love Pavetta and she loves me, that's all that counts. You can't stand in the way of our happiness.'

'I can, Duny, I can, and how.' Calanthe smiled one of her unfailing smiles. 'You're lucky I don't want to. I have a certain debt towards you, Duny. I'd made up my mind... I ought to ask your forgiveness, but I hate doing that. So I'm giving you Pavetta and we'll be quits. Pavetta?

You haven't changed your mind, have you?'

The princess shook her head eagerly.

'Thank you, your Majesty. Thank you,' smiled Duny. 'You're a wise and generous queen.'

'Of course I am. And beautiful.'

'And beautiful.'

'You can both stay in Cintra if you wish. The people here are less superstitious than the inhabitants of Maecht and adjust to things quicker. Besides, even as Urcheon you were quite pleasant. But you can't count on having the throne just yet. I intend to reign a little longer beside the new king of Cintra. The noble Eist Tuirseach of Skellige has made me a very interesting proposition.'

'Calanthe—'

'Yes, Eist, I accept. I've never before listened to a confession of love while lying on the floor amidst fragments of my own throne but . . . How did you put it, Duny? This is all that counts and I don't advise anyone to stand in the way of my happiness. And you, what are you staring at? I'm not as old as you think.'

'Today's youth,' muttered Mousesack. 'The apple doesn't fall far—'

'What are you muttering, sorcerer?'

'Nothing, ma'am.'

'Good. While we're at it, I've got a proposition for you, Mouse-sack. Pavetta's going to need a teacher. She ought to learn how to use her gift. I like this castle, and I'd prefer it to remain standing.

It might fall apart at my talented daughter's next attack of hysteria. How about it, Druid?'

'I'm honoured.'

'I think,' the queen turned her head towards the window. 'It's dawn. Time to—V

She suddenly turned to where Pavetta and Duny were whispering to each other, holding hands, their foreheads all but touching.

'Duny!'

'Yes, your Majesty?'

'Do you hear? It's dawn! It's already light. And you . . .'

Geralt glanced at Mousesack and both started laughing.

'And why are you so happy, sorcerers? Can't you see—?'

'We can, we can,' Geralt assured her.

'We were waiting until you saw for yourself,' snorted Mouse-sack. 'I was wondering when you'd catch on.'

'To what?'

'That you've lifted the curse. It's you who's lifted it,' said the witcher. 'The moment you said

“I'm giving you Pavetta” destiny was fulfilled.'

'Exactly,' confirmed the druid.

'Oh gods,' said Duny slowly. 'So, finally. Damn, I thought I'd be happier, that some sort of trumpets would play or . . . Force of habit. Your Majesty! Thank you. Pavetta, do you hear?'

'Mhm,' said the princess without raising her eyes.

'And so,' sighed Calanthe, looking at Geralt with tired eyes, 'all's well that ends well. Don't you agree, witcher? The curse has been lifted, two weddings are on their way, it'll take about a month to repair the throne-room, there are four dead, countless wounded and Rainfarn of Attre is half-dead. Let's celebrate. Do you know, witcher, that there was a moment when I wanted to have you—'

'I know.'

'But now I have to do you justice. I demanded a result and got one. Cintra is allied to Skellige.

My daughter's marrying the right man. For a moment I thought all this would have been fulfilled according to destiny anyway, even if I hadn't had you brought in for the feast and sat you next to me. But I was wrong. Rainfam's dagger could have changed destiny. And Rainfarn was stopped by a sword held by a witcher. You've done an honest job, Geralt. Now it's a question of price. Tell me what you want.'

'Hold on,' said Duny, fingering his bandaged side. 'A question of price, you say. It is I who am in debt, it's up to me—'

'Don't interrupt.' Calanthe narrowed her eyes. 'Your mother-in-law hates being interrupted.

Remember that. And you should know that you're not in any debt. It so happens that you were the subject of my agreement with Geralt. I said we're quits and I don't see the sense of my having to endlessly apologise to you for it. But the agreement still binds me. Well, Geralt.

Your price.'

'Very well,' said the witcher. 'I ask for your green sash, Calanthe. May it always remind me of the colour of the eyes of the most beautiful queen I have ever known.'

Calanthe laughed, and unfastened her emerald necklace.

'This trinket,' she said, 'has stones of the right hue. Keep it, and the memory.'

'May I speak?' asked Duny modestly.

'But of course, Son-in-law, please do, please do.'

'I still say I am in your debt, witcher. It is my life that Rainfam's dagger endangered. I would have been beaten to death by the guards without you. If there's talk of a price then I should be the one to pay. I assure you I can afford it. What do you ask, Geralt?'

'Duny,' said Geralt slowly, 'a witcher who is asked such a question has to ask to have it repeated.'

'I repeat, therefore. Because, you see, I am in your debt for still another reason. When I found out who you were, there in the hall, I hated you and thought very badly of you. I took you for a blind, bloodthirsty tool, for someone who kills coldly and without question, who wipes his blade clean of blood and counts the cash. But I've become convinced that the witcher's profession is worthy of respect. You protect us not only from the evil lurking in the darkness, but also from that which lies within ourselves. It's a shame there are so few of you.'

Calanthe smiled.

For the first time that night Geralt was inclined to believe it was genuine.

'My son-in-law has spoken well. I have to add two words to what he said. Precisely two.

Forgive, Geralt.'

'And I,' said Duny, 'ask again. What do you ask for?'

'Duny,' said Geralt seriously, 'Calanthe, Pavetta. And you, righteous knight Tuirseach, future king of Cintra. In order to become a witcher, you have to be born in the shadow of destiny, and very few are born like that. That's why there are so few of us. We're growing old, dying, without anyone to pass our knowledge, our gifts, on to. We lack successors. And this world is full of Evil which waits for the day none of us are left.'

'Geralt,' whispered Calanthe.

'Yes, you're not wrong, queen. Duny! You will give me that which you already have but do not know. I'll return to Cintra in six years to see if destiny has been kind to me.'

'Pavetta,' Duny opened his eyes wide. 'Surely you're not—'

'Pavetta!' exclaimed Calanthe. 'Are you . . . are you—?'

The princess lowered her eyes and blushed. Then replied.

'Geralt! Hey! Are you there?'

He raised his head from the coarse, yellowed pages of The History of the World by Roderick de Novembre, an interesting if controversial work which he had been studying since the previous day.

'Yes, I am. What's happened, Nenneke? Do you need me?'

'You've got a guest.'

'Again? Who's it this time? Duke Hereward himself?'

'No. It's Dandilion this time, your fellow. That idler, parasite and good-for-nothing, that priest of art, the bright-shining star of the ballad and love poem. As usual he's radiant with fame, puffed up like a pig's bladder and stinking of beer. Do you want to see him?'

'Of course. He's my friend, after all.'

Nenneke, peeved, shrugged her shoulders. 'I can't understand that friendship. He's your absolute opposite.'

'Opposites attract.'

'Obviously. There, he's coming,' she indicated with her head. 'Your famous poet.'

'He really is a famous poet, Nenneke. Surely you're not going to claim you've never heard his ballads.'

'I've heard them.' The priestess winced. 'Yes, indeed. Well, I don't know much about it, but maybe the ability to jump from touching lyricism to obscenities so easily is a talent. Never mind. Forgive me, but I won't keep you company. I'm not in the mood for either his poetry or his vulgar jokes.'

A peal of laughter and the strumming of a lute resounded in the corridor and there, on the threshold of the library, stood Dandilion in a lilac jerkin with lace cuffs, his hat askew. The troubadour bowed exaggeratedly at the sight of Nenneke, the heron feather pinned to his hat sweeping the floor.

'My deepest respects, venerable mother,' he whined stupidly. 'Praise be the Great Melitele and her priestesses, the springs of virtue and wisdom—'

'Stop talking bullshit,' snorted Nenneke. 'And don't call me mother. The very idea that you could be my son fills me with horror.'

She turned on her heel and left, her trailing robe rustling. Dandilion, aping her, sketched a parody bow.

'She hasn't changed a bit,' he said cheerfully. 'She still can't take a joke. She's furious because I chatted a bit to the gate-keeper when I got here, a pretty blonde with long lashes and a virgin's plait reaching down to her cute little bottom, which it would be a sin not to pinch. So I did and Nenneke, who had just arrived . . . Ah, what the deuce. Greetings, Geralt.'

'Greetings, Dandilion. How did you know I was here?'

The poet straightened himself and yanked his trousers up. 'I was in Wyzim,' he said. 'I heard about the striga, and that you were wounded. I guessed where you would come to recuperate.

I see you're well now, are you?'

'You see correctly, but try explaining that to Nenneke. Sit, let's talk.'

Dandilion sat and peeped into the book lying on the lectern. 'History?' he smiled. 'Roderick de Novembre? I've read him, I have. History was second on my list of. favourite subjects when I was studying at the Academy in Oxenfurt.'

'What was first?'

'Geography,' said the poet seriously. 'The atlas was bigger and it was easier to hide a demijohn of vodka behind it.'

Geralt laughed dryly, got up, removed Lunin and Tyrss's The Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy from the shelf and pulled a round-bellied vessel wrapped in straw from behind the bulky volume and into the light of day.

'Oho.' The bard visibly cheered up. 'Wisdom and inspiration, I see, are still to be found in libraries. Oooh! I like this! Plum,

isn't it? Yes, this is true alchemy. This is a philosopher's stone well worth studying. Your health, brother. Ooooh, it's strong as the plague!'

'What brings you here?' Geralt took the demijohn over from the poet, took a sip and started to cough, fingering his bandaged neck. 'Where are you going?'

'Nowhere. That is, I could go where you're going. I could keep you company. Do you intend staying here long?'

'Not long. The local duke let it be known I'm,not welcome.'

'Hereward?' Dandilion knew all the kings, princes, lords and feudal lords from Jaruga to the Dragon Mountains. 'Don't you give a damn. He won't dare fall foul of Nenneke, or Melitele.

The people would set fire to his castle.'

'I don't want any trouble. And I've been sitting here for too long anyway. I'm going south, Dandilion. Far south. I won't find any work here. Civilisation. What the hell do they need a witcher here for? When I ask after employment, they look at me as if I'm a freak.'

'What are you talking about? What civilisation? I crossed Buina a week ago and heard all sorts of stories as I rode through the country. Apparently there are water sprites here, myriapodans, chimerea, flying drakes, every possible filth. You should be up to your ears in work.'

'Stories, well, I've heard them too. Half of them are either made up or exaggerated. No, Dandilion. The world is changing. Something's coming to an end.'

The poet took a long pull at the demijohn, narrowed his eyes and sighed heavily. 'Are you crying over your sad fate as a witcher again? And philosophising on top of that? I perceive the disastrous effects of inappropriate literature, because the fact that the world is changing occurred even to that old fart Roderick de Novembre. The changeability of the world is, as it happens, the only thesis in this treatise you can agree with. But it's not so innovative you have to ply me with it and put on the face of a great thinker -which doesn't suit you in the least.'

Instead of answering Geralt took a sip from the demijohn.

'Yes, yes,' sighed Dandilion anew. 'The world is changing, the sun sets, and the vodka is coming to an end. What else, in your opinion, is coming to an end? You mentioned something about endings, philosopher.'

'I'll give you a couple of examples,' said Geralt after a moment's silence, 'all from two months this side of the Buina. One day I ride up and what do I see? A bridge. And under that bridge sits a troll and demands every passerby pays him. Those who refuse have a leg injured, sometimes both. So I go to the alderman: “How much will you give me for that troll?” He's amazed. “What are you talking about?” he asks, “Who will repair the bridge if the troll's not there? He repairs it regularly with the sweat of his brow, solid work, first rate. It's cheaper to pay his toll.” So I ride on, and what do I see? A forktail. Not very big, about four yards nose-tip to tail-tip. It's flying, carrying a sheep in its talons. I go to the village. “How much?” I ask,

“will you pay me for the forktail?” The peasants fall on their knees. “No!” they shout, “it's our baron's youngest daughter's favourite dragon. If a scale falls from its back, the baron will burn our hamlet, and skin us.” I ride on, and I'm getting hungrier and hungrier. I ask around for work. Certainly it's there, but what work? To catch a rusalka for one man, a nymph for another, a dryad for a third . . . They've gone completely mad - the villages are teeming with girls but they want humanoids. Another asks me to kill a mecopteran and bring him a bone from its hand because, crushed and poured into a soup, it cures impotence—'