The Sword of Destiny (39 page)

"Help!" he yelled, feeling the sharp fangs pierce his hood and engulf the back of his skull.

"Get your head down!"

He pressed his chin to his chest, searching with his gaze for the quick strike of the blade. The sword sang through the air, brushing his hood. Yurga heard a wet and terrible crack. A hot liquid spilled like a bucket across his shoulders. A dead weight around his neck forced both his knees to the ground.

The merchant saw three other monsters spring from under the bridge. Leaping like locusts, they seized the stranger's legs. One of them, its frog face split by a blow, staggered rigidly away before falling to the planks. The second, pierced by the tip of the sword, collapsed into spasms. The others surrounded the white-haired man like ants, driving him to the side of the bridge. The third monster was thrown, bleeding, screaming and convulsing, from the fray. The disordered horde rolled at the same moment over the edge of the bridge and into the ravine. Yurga fell to the ground, protecting his head with his hands.

Under the bridge, the merchant heard the triumphant clamor of the monsters give way to the hissing of the sword, screaming and moans of pain. Then there came from the darkness a clanging of stones followed by the crackle of crushed and smashed skeletons, and again the whistle of a sword and a final, desperate, blood-curdling croaking, prematurely interrupted.

It was then that the silence was punctuated here and there, among the trees deep in the

woods, by the frightened cry of a bird. Then even the birds were silent.

Yurga swallowed hard and sat up slightly, lifting his head. The silence still reigned. Not even the leaves of the trees made a sound.

The forest seemed to have become mute with terror. Frayed clouds darkened the sky.

"Hey!"

The merchant turned, instinctively protecting himself with his hands. The witcher was standing before him, motionless, black, holding his shining sword at arm's length. Yurga noticed that he did not stand up straight, he leaned to one side.

"Lord, have you made it?"

The witcher did not respond. He took a heavy and awkward step, touching his left hip, and reached out to hold on to the side of the cart. Yurga noticed black and shining blood dripping onto the planks.

"Lord, you're injured!"

The witcher did not respond. He clung to the side of the cart, locking eyes with the merchant, and then slid slowly onto the bridge.

II

"Easy, careful... Under the head... One of you support his head!"

"Here, here, on the cart!"

"By the gods, the lord... Master Yurga, he's bleeding through the dressing..."

"Stop jabbering! Come on, hurry up! Profit, the nerve! Cover him with furs, and you, Veil, don't you see that he's shaking?"

"Perhaps he could be given some vodka!"

"Wounded and unconscious? Are you mad, Veil? Pass me the bottle instead: I need a drink... Dogs, scoundrels, miserable cowards! Running away like that and leaving me alone!"

"Master Yurga! He said something!"

"What? What did he say?"

"I'm not sure... A name..."

"What name?"

"Yennefer..."

Ill

"Where am I?"

"Don't get up, sir, don't move, or everything will reopen and tear. Those horrible creatures must have bitten the thigh down to the bone. You lost a lot of blood... Don't you recognize me? Yurga! The man you saved on the bridge, don't you remember?"

"Ah..."

"Are you thirsty?"

"By the devil, yes..."

"Drink, my lord, drink. You're consumed by fever."

"Yurga... where are we?"

"We're on the road, in my cart. Don't say anything, my lord, don't move. We must cross the forests to reach the first human settlements and find a healer. Your dressing isn't enough. The blood won't stop flowing..."

"Yurga..."

"Yes, my lord?"

"In my chest... a flask... sealed with green wax. Break the seal and give it to me... in a goblet. No-one must touch the flask... if you value your life... Quick, Yurga... Damn, but this cart can shake... The flask, Yurga..."

"Here... drink."

"Thank you... Pay close attention. I'm going to fall asleep. I will be thrashing and raving, and then still as a corpse. It's nothing, don't be afraid..."

"Sleep, lord, otherwise your wound will reopen and you'll lose all your blood."

He sank into the furs. His head reeled. He felt that the merchant had covered him with a coat and a blanket that smelled of horse sweat. The cart jolted. Each bump hit his thigh and hip painfully. He gritted his teeth. Above him, he saw millions of stars. So close that it seemed that it would be enough to reach above his head, just above the line of the trees, to touch them.

He chose to follow the path farthest from the light, from the glow of fires, to hide in the areas of swaying shadow. It wasn't easy: all around were burning pyres of pine, dotting the sky with the red light of torches, adding their banners of smoke to the darkness, crackling and flaring with light between the dancing silhouettes.

Geralt stopped to allow the passage of the procession - mad, screaming, savage - that approached him and blocked any escape. Someone seized his shoulder and tried to give him a small cup filled with foam. He refused politely, but firmly pushed away the staggering man who carried a barrel of watered beer around to the people. He did not drink.

Not tonight.

Not far away, on a stage built from the trunks of birch trees that overlooked the huge bonfire, the fair-haired King of May, wearing a crown of flowers and branches, kissed the Queen of May; he caressed her breasts through her thin, sweat-drenched tunic. The monarch, very drunk, staggered and could not keep his balance without holding onto the queen, holding a nice mug of beer in the fist at his back. The queen was not sober either. Encircled by a wreath of flowers that was falling over her eyes, she clung to the neck of the king and kicked up her legs. The crowd danced on the stage, singing, shouting, and waving branches twined with flowers and vines.

"Belleteyn!" a girl cried into Geralt's ear.

Tugging at his sleeve, she forced him to join the procession that surrounded him. She danced beside him: her robe and the flowers in her hair fluttered in the breeze. He allowed her to draw him into the dance. He whirled deftly, allowing the other couples to pass.

"Belleteyn! It's the night of May!"

Next to them, a scuffle broke out, the cries and nervous laughter of a girl struggling against a boy who carried her off into the dark, outside the circle of light. The procession, shouting, followed a path between the burning fires. Sometimes, someone stumbled, falling and breaking the chain of linked arms that then branched out into small groups.

The eyes of the girl, piercing through the leaves that adorned her brow, were watching Geralt. She approached and hugged herself forcefully against his shoulders. He gave a blunt refusal. Her fingers pressed the wetness of her body through the fine linen. She lifted her head, closing her eyes. Her teeth gleamed brilliantly below her slightly raised lip. The girl gave off the smell of sweat and sweet grass, of smoke and desire.

Why not, he thought, crumpling the back of her dress. His hands delighted in the humid and ethereal heat. The young woman was certainly not his type: too small, too tightly-wrapped. He felt with his fingers where the too-tight dress divided her body into two sharp curves, just where he should not feel them. But why not, during a night like this... it doesn't matter.

Belleteyn... The fires on the horizon. The night of May.

Nearest to the stake, engulfing the bundles of dry resin that launched the flames, the yellow glow intensified, flooding the area with light. The girl met Geralt's eyes. He heard her inhale sharply. Her body suddenly tensed; her fingers curled abruptly against the witcher's chest. Geralt released his companion. She hesitated at first, then moved her body away without immediately giving up the contact between her hips the witcher's thigh. Avoiding his gaze, her head bowed, she withdrew her hands before taking a step back.

They were still for a moment. The return of the procession did not absorb them, did not shake them, did not hurry them. The girl awkwardly turned and ran, losing herself in the mass of other dancers. She cast a furtive glance back.

Belleteyn...

But what am I doing here ?

A star shone, twinkling in the dark. Blinding. The amulet around the witcher's neck began to tingle. Geralt instinctively dilated his pupils to pierce the darkness without difficulty.

The woman was not a peasant. The country girls were not wearing black velvet cloaks. The country girls were pushed or dragged by the men into the bushes, crying out, giggling, wriggling and trembling like freshly-caught fish. None of them gave the impression that they were in control of the situation: this woman was taking a companion into the dark, a man with blond hair and his shirt half open.

The country girls never wore a velvet ribbon around their necks or an obsidian star encrusted with diamonds.

"Yennefer."

Her violet eyes burned in a pale , triangular face.

"Geralt..." '

She released the hand of the blond angel whose torso gleamed with sweat like a copper plate. The boy hesitated, staggered, fell to his knees, turned his head, looked around, protested. Then he rose slowly, considering them with a look that was at once skeptical and embarrassed, and walked off toward the fires. The sorceress didn't even look at him. She stared intently at the witcher. Her hand trembled on the edge of her cloak.

"It's good to see you again," he said without emotion.

He felt then that the tension between them had fallen.

"Same," she replied, smiling. It seemed that the smile contained something forced, but he wasn't sure. "This is a pleasant surprise, I agree. What are you doing here, Geralt? Oh! Pardon me, excuse my indiscretion. Of course you are here for the same thing I am. This is the feast of Belleteyn. The difference being that you have caught me, one might say, in the act."

"I've disturbed you."

"I'll live," she joked. "The night will go on. If I like, I can seduce another."

"A pity that I don't know how," he managed to say, feigning indifference. "A girl saw my eyes in the light and ran away."

"In the morning," she replied, smiling in an even more artificial way, "when they really go mad, they won't pay so much attention. You'll find another, you'll see..."

"Yen..."

The rest of the sentence caught in his throat.

They looked at each other for a long time, a very long time. The red glow of the fire danced over their faces. Yennefer sighed suddenly, veiling her eyes under their lashes.

"Geralt, no. Don't start..."

"It's Belleteyn," he interrupted, "did you forget?"

She approached slowly, put a hand on his shoulder and pressed gently against him,

curling herself gently against his chest. He stroked the raven-black hair that fell in curls like snakes.

"Believe me," she murmured, lifting her face, "I wouldn't hesitate for a moment if if it were only a question of... but there's no sense in it. Everything would begin again and end as it did before. There's no sense in us..."

"Must everything make sense? It's Belleteyn."

"Belleteyn?" She turned her face. "What difference does that make? Something drew us to these fires and these celebrating people. We intended to dance, to let loose, to get a little drunk and vigorously enjoy freedom from good manners here, in honor of the renewal of the cycle of nature. And what? We trip over each other after... how much time has passed? After... a year?"

"One year, two months and eighteen days."

"I'm touched. Do you do that on purpose?"

"Yes, Yen..."

"Geralt," she interrupted, leaning back suddenly and shaking her head, "let me be clear: it's impossible."

He confirmed with a nod of his head that this was clear.

Yennefer pushed her cloak back from her shoulders. She wore a thin white blouse and a black skirt held by a belt of silver links.

"I don't want to start again," she repeated. "And the idea of doing with you... what I intended to do with the handsome blond... under the same rules... that idea, Geralt, I find demeaning. Degrading for you and for me. Understand?"

He nodded again. She looked at him, through her lowered lashes.

"You aren't going?"

"No."

She remained silent for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

"You're offended?"

"No."

"Come, let's sit down somewhere, away from the chaos. Talk a little. You see, I'm glad that we met. It's the truth. Let's sit a moment. Agreed?"

"All right, Yen."

They left in the dark, away from the bonfire, toward the dark edge of the forest, careful to avoid the embracing couples. To find a quiet place, they had to walk for a while. They stopped on a dry hill flanked by a juniper bush as slender as a cypress.

The sorceress unclasped her brooch and spread her cloak over the ground after shaking it out. He sat next to her. He longed to take her shoulders, but it would only annoy her. Yennefer rebuttoned her wide-open blouse, with Geralt watching attentively. She sighed, holding herself against him. Geralt knew that Yennefer had to make a great effort to read thoughts, but that she instinctively sensed the intentions of others.

They were silent.

"Oh, by the plague!" she cried suddenly, breaking free of his embrace.

The sorceress lifted her arms and recited an incantation. Over their heads rose bubbles of red and green that burst high in the air and formed feathery red flowers. Laughter and cries of joy reached them from the fires.

"Belleteyn," she said bitterly. "The night of May... The cycle repeats itself. They have fun, if they can..."

There were other sorcerers in the area. Three orange flashes rang out in the distance; on the other side, at the foot of the forest, a geyser of rainbow-colored meteors twirled into the sky and exploded. The dancers near the fire cried out in admiration. Feeling tense, Geralt caressed Yennefer's curls and inhaled the scent of lilac and gooseberry they gave off. If I