The Sword of Destiny (41 page)

"The cruel and vicious witcher stamped his foot and waved his arms, shouting: 'Beware, perjurer. You will not escape your punishment if you do not respect your oath.' The queen responded: 'So be it, witcher. Let it be done according to destiny. Look over there: a dozen children are playing. Recognize the one destined for you. Take that one and leave me alone, with a broken heart.'" The witcher was silent. Calanthe's smile grew more and more ugly.

"In this story, the queen, I imagine, offers three chances to the witcher. But we do not live in the world of fairy tales, Geralt. We are indeed real, you, me, and our problem. And so is our destiny. This is not a story being told, it is a life at stake. Sickening, cruel, arduous, sparing neither error and prejudice, nor regret and misery, and sparing neither witchers nor

queens. That is why, Geralt of Rivia, you will be granted only one attempt."

The witcher had not yet flinched.

"One single attempt," repeated Calanthe. "I said before: we are not characters in a story, this is real life where we must find our own moments of happiness, because, you know, we can hardly count on a happy ending. That is why, regardless of your choice, you will not leave empty-handed. You will take a child. Whichever you have chosen. A child that you will turn into a witcher... provided that he passes the trial of Herbs, of course."

Geralt lifted his head abruptly. The queen was still smiling. He knew that smile, ugly and vicious, contemptuous and concealing none of her artifice.

"I've surprised you," she said. "I gave the matter some study. Since there was a chance that Pavetta's child might become a witcher, I put myself to the trouble. However, my sources did not inform me of the proportion of children, out of ten, who can pass the trial of Herbs. Would you like to satisfy my curiosity in this area?"

"My queen," Geralt began, clearing his throat. "Without a doubt you must have taken sufficient pains in your studies to know that my code and my witcher's oath forbid me from uttering the word, let alone from discussing it."

Calanthe violently stopped the movement of the swing, planting her heels in the ground.

"Three, at most four out often," she explained, feigning concentration with a nod of her head. "A difficult selection, very difficult, I would say, and that at each stage. First, the choice, then that of the test. And finally the changes. How many rogues ultimately receive the medallion and the silver sword? One in ten? One in twenty?"

The witcher remained silent.

"I have given the matter a lot of thought," Calanthe went on, abandoning her smile. "I came to the conclusion that the stage of the choice is incidental. What difference does it make, Geralt, that one child and not another dies or goes mad as a result of a massive dose of drugs? What difference does it make if the mind is destroyed or consumed by delusions, or the eyes explode instead of becoming the eyes of a cat? In light of the blood or the sickness preceding his death, what difference does it make whether one child or another was truly destined by providence or was perfectly inappropriate? Tell me." The witcher folded his hands across his chest to control their trembling.

"To what end?" he asked. "Do you expect an answer?"

"No, I don't expect that." The queen smiled again. "As always, you remain infallible in your conclusions. Who knows whether I, in response to your answer, might graciously deign to devote a little of my attention to the sincerity and the truthfulness of your words? The words that you speak might - who knows? - lift with them the weight on your spirit. If not, oh well, let's get to work providing the material for the storytellers and go choose a child, witcher."

"Calanthe," he responded, fixing his eyes on the queen. "What do the storytellers matter to us? If they don't get any material, then they will invent something. And even if they have access to some authentic source, you know perfectly well that they will distort it. As you yourself rightly remarked, this is not a fairy tale, but life, sickening and cruel, through which we are trying, by the plague and cholera, to live decently and to strictly limit the amount of harm we inflict on others. In one tale, the queen must actually beg the witcher and he responds by stamping his foot. In life, the queen could simply say: 'Do not take this child, please.' And the witcher answered: 'Since you insist, my queen, so be it.' He then resumed his journey at dusk. Such is life. The storyteller would not get a cent from his audience if he told such nonsense. At most, a kick in the rear. Because it's boring."

Calanthe stopped smiling. He saw something else shining in her eyes.

"And so?" she growled.

"Let's end this game of hide and seek, Calanthe. You know what I think. I will leave just as I arrived. Choose a child? What do you take me for? You think that this is so important to me? That I came to Cintra, tormented by an obsession with taking your little child from you? No, Calanthe. I simply wanted to see the child, to look into the eyes of destiny... Myself, I don't know... Don't be afraid. I will not take it. You had only to ask..."

Calanthe jumped up violently from the swing. A green light burned in her eyes.

"Ask?" she growled, furious. "Of you? Me, afraid? Afraid of you, cursed sorcerer? You dare to turn your expression of contemptuous pity on me? You dare insult me with your condescension! You reproach me for my cowardice! You disobey my will! My kindness to you unleashes your insolence! Beware!"

The witcher decided not to shrug his shoulders: it was more prudent to kneel and prostrate himself. He did.

"Well," Calanthe growled, standing over him. Her arms were swinging, fists clenched around the spikes of her rings. "Finally. This is a more appropriate position. It is in this position that one answers to a queen when she requires a response. And if instead of a question, it's an order that I give you, you will bow down even lower and hasten without delay to obey it. Understood?"

"Yes, my queen."

"Perfect. Get up."

He stood up. She looked at him, biting her lips.

"My outburst of anger has not offended you? I ask regarding its form, not its content."

"No."

"Good. I will try not to explode again. As I told you, ten children play there in the ditch. Choose the one that seems to you the most suitable. Take him with you and by the gods make him a witcher, because that is the will of destiny. And if not of destiny, know that it is my will."

He looked her in the eye and bowed very low.

"My queen," he said, "six years ago, I showed you that there exist things more powerful than the royal will. By the gods, if such things really exist, I will prove it once more. You will not force me to make a choice I do not want to make. Pardon the form, not the content."

"The depths of my castle dungeon are riddled with cells. I warn you: one more moment, one more word, and you will rot."

"None of the children playing in the ditch is suited to become a witcher," he said slowly. "The son of Pavetta is not among them."

Calanthe blinked, but did not waver.

"Come," she said finally, turning on her heel.

He followed her through the flowering bushes, the clumps and hedges. The queen entered a sunlit gazebo. Four rattan chairs surrounded a malachite table. On the streaked tabletop supported by four fierce griffons, there sat a pitcher and two small cups.

"Have a seat and pour."

She drank, without pretension, heavily, like a man. He did the same, but remained standing.

"Sit down," she repeated. "I want to talk."

"I'm listening."

"How did you know that the son of Pavetta was not found among those children?"

"I don't know." Geralt opted for sincerity. "I said it at random."

"Ah? I might have guessed. And none of them is suited to become a witcher, is that the truth? How can you tell? By magic?"

"Calanthe," he answered in a soft voice, "I could neither confirm nor deny it. What

you said earlier was the simple truth: every child is capable. The trials decide. Later."

"By the gods of the sea, in the words of my late husband," she declared, laughing, "it is all false! Including the law of surprise! The legends of children nobody expected and for whom the claimants return at the appointed time. I thought so! It's a game! A game of chance and fate! But all this is diabolically dangerous, Geralt."

"I know."

"A game that causes harm. Why, tell me, do you force the parents or guardians to make such difficult promises? Why take their children? There are so many, everywhere, there is no need to take them. The roads swarm with orphans and vagabonds. In any village, it is easy to buy an infant on the cheap. During the drought before the harvest, any serf will sell his children willingly. What does he care? A new one is already on the way. Why demand an oath of Duny, of Pavetta and myself? Why appear six years to the day after the birth of the child? And why, by cholera, don't you want it now? Why tell me that you won't take it?"

Geralt remained silent. Calanthe nodded her head.

"You don't answer," she concluded, letting herself fall against the back of her chair. "Attempt to elucidate the reason behind your silence for me. Logic being the mother of all knowledge, what does she suggest in this matter? What do we have at our disposal? A witcher on a quest for destiny hidden in a strange and unlikely surprise. The witcher discovers that destiny and then abruptly renounces it, saying that he no longer wants the child-surprise. His face remains utterly impassive and his voice resonates with the coolness of glass and metal. The witcher thinks that the queen, a woman after all, will allow herself to be tricked and in the end will cede to his masculinity. No, Geralt, don't wait for me to show weakness. I know why you renounce your choice of a child. You renounce it because you do not believe in destiny, because you are not certain. And when you're not sure... it's fear that takes over. Yes, Geralt, fear is your engine. Fear is your cargo. Dare to say otherwise."

He slowly pushed the cup on the table so that the clink of silver on malachite would not betray the uncontrollable trembling of his arm.

"You don't deny it?"

"No."

She bent to seize his hand with vigor.

"You disappoint me," she said, giggling prettily.

"This isn't voluntary," he responded, laughing as well. "How did you guess, Calanthe?"

"I did not guess." She did not release his hand. "I said it at random, that's all."

They broke out in laughter.

They settled into silence in the greenery and the smell of the clusters of cherries, in the heat and the buzzing of bees.

"Geralt?"

"Yes, Calanthe?"

"You do not believe in destiny?"

"I don't know if I believe in anything. As for destiny... I think that it is not enough. There must be something more."

"I must ask you a question on this point: what was your story? It is said that you were a child-surprise. Mousesack said..."

"No, Calanthe. Mousesack had something else in mind. Mousesack undoubtedly knows... but he resorts to legend when it suits him. I was never the thing that one does not expect to find on his return. It is wrong to say that I became a witcher for that reason. I was an ordinary orphan, Calanthe, a kid that his mother, whom he does not remember, did not want. But I know who she is."

The queen was all ears, but Geralt did not continue.

"Are all the stories about the law of surprise also legends?"

"All of them. How can one know whether something is chance or destiny?"

"But you, the witchers, you keep looking."

"We don't stop. But that makes no sense. Nothing makes sense."

"You believe that a child of providence will safely pass the tests?"

"We believe that such a child would not need to pass the tests."

"One more question, Geralt, quite personal. Do you mind?"

He nodded his acquiescence.

"It is known that there is no better way to pass on hereditary traits than in the natural way. If you seek a child possessed of such qualities and such strength, why not look for a woman who... I am being indelicate, no? But it seems to me that I've hit my mark."

"As always," he responded with a sad smile, "you remain infallible, Calanthe. You have hit upon it, to be sure. What you suggest is impossible for me."

"Forgive me." Her smile disappeared. "In the end, it's only human."

"A witcher isn't human."

"Ah? And so, no witcher..."

"None. The trial of Herbs, Calanthe, is horrible. And what is irreversibly done to young boys during the changes is even more so."

"Stop lamenting your fate," she grumbled. "This is not like you. It doesn't matter what you've been subjected to. The result in my eyes is quite evident. If I knew that Pavetta's child would become someone like you, I wouldn't hesitate an instant."

"The risk is very large," he said quickly. "It's just as you said: four in ten survive."

"By the devil! Is there only danger in the event of these changes? Only the future witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, Geralt. Life, too, is governed by selection: accidents, diseases, wars. Opposing destiny is perhaps as dangerous as abandoning it. Geralt... I would voluntarily give you this child, but.. I am also afraid."

"I will not take it. It is too great a responsibility, one that I refuse to assume. I would not want for this child to speak about you the way... the way I..."

"You hate this woman, Geralt?"

"My mother? No, Calanthe. I doubt that she was given a choice... or perhaps she had no say? No, she had, you know, enough formulas and elixirs... Choice. There is a sacred and incontestable choice of every woman that must be respected. Emotions are of no importance here. She had the indisputable right to make such a choice. That's what she did. But I think about meeting her, the expression on her face then... it gives me a sort of perverse pleasure, if you understand what I mean."

"I understand what you say perfectly," she replied, smiling. "But the chances of this happening are slim. I can't judge your age, witcher, but I suspect that you're much older than you appear. And so this woman..."

"This woman," he interrupted, "must now look much younger than I do."

"A sorceress?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. I thought that sorceresses could not..."

"She no doubt thought the same thing."

"No doubt. But you're right... Let's not speak any more about the right of a woman to decide. This is not the subject at hand. Returning to our problem. You will not take a child? This is final?"

"Final."

"What if... destiny was not a myth? If it truly exists, do you not fear that it will take revenge?"

"If destiny takes vengeance, it will be on me," he replied calmly. "It is I who attack it.

You have fulfilled your duty in this matter. If destiny proved not to be a legend, I would then find the child from those you showed me. The child of Pavetta is among them?"

"Yes." Calanthe inclined her head slowly. "Would you like to look into the eyes of destiny?"

"No. I don't care. I withdraw and renounce my claim on the boy. How can I see the face of destiny when I don't believe in it? To unite two individuals, I think, destiny is not enough. It takes something more. Should I follow, groping along like a blind man, naive and uncomprehending? I have no respect for such destiny. My decision is irrevocable, Calanthe ofCintra."

The queen rose, smiling. The witcher could not divine what that smile concealed.

"So be it, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps destiny willed that you withdraw and renounce your claim. I am, for my part, convinced. If you had chosen the right child, the destiny that you mock might have cruelly mocked you in return."

He saw irony in those green eyes. She continued to wear an indecipherable smile. A rosebush grew next to the gazebo. Geralt plucked a flower, breaking its stem and then knelt, his head bowed, presenting the flower in his hands.

"I regret that I did not meet you sooner, white-haired one," she said, accepting the offered rose. "Rise."

He rose.

"If you change your mind," she went on, sniffing the flower, "if you decide... Return to Cintra. I will wait for you. Your destiny will be waiting for you, as well. Perhaps not advitam aeternam, but for some time, no doubt."

"Farewell, Calanthe." "Farewell, witcher. Look after yourself. I... I sometimes feel... in a strange way... that I am seeing you for the last time."

"Farewell, my queen."

Geralt awoke and discovered with astonishment that the stinging pain in his thigh had disappeared. It seemed that the swelling had also diminished. He wanted to check with his hands, but he could not lift them. Before he could understand that the weight of the fur blankets prevented him from moving, a horrible icy anxiety seized his stomach with talons like a hawk's. He extended and relaxed his fingers and repeated silently, no, no, I'm not...

Paralyzed.

"You're awake."

It was an observation, not a question, made in a voice that was clear and sweet. A woman. Young, certainly. He turned his head and mumbled something about trying to get up.

"Don't move. Not so roughly, anyway. Are you in pain?"

"Nnn..." The sticky lips tore. "Nnno. Only hurts... back."

"A bedsore," the gentle alto voice diagnosed, with open chilliness. "Leave it to me. Come, drink this. Easy, in slow sips."

The taste and smell of juniper dominated the beverage. An old trick, he thought. Juniper or mint to mask the true composition. He recognized cousataire and perhaps some button-heart. Yes, the button-heart was doubtlessly to neutralize the toxins and purify the blood poisoned by gangrene or infection.

"Drink. Drain the cup dry. Slower, or you'll choke." The medallion he wore around his neck began to vibrate slightly. Then the potion contained

magic as well. With effort, he dilated his pupils. Lifting his head, he could now see clearly. A woman of feeble constitution, she wore men's clothing. The pallor of her thin face was luminous in the darkness.

"Where are we?"

"In the tar-makers' clearing."

The smell of resin floated effectively through the air. Geralt heard voices coming from the side of the hearth. Someone threw on some dead wood. The flame rose, sizzling. He looked at her again, making use of the light. Her hair was held back by a band of snakeskin. Her hair...

He felt a suffocating pain in his throat and his chest, and forcefully clenched his fists.

Her hair was red like fire. Illuminated by the light of the hearth, it looked vermillion, like cinnabar.

"Are you in pain?" She read his emotions incompletely. "Wait..." He felt the shock of heat from the contact of her hand: the fire flowed down her back, and lower, toward her buttocks.

"You're coming around," she said. "Don't try to move on your own. You're very weak. Hey! Could someone help me?"

Geralt heard steps next to the hearth; he saw shadows, silhouettes. Someone bent down. It was Yurga.

"How are you feeling, lord? Better?"

"Help me turn him over," the woman said. "Carefully, slowly... Ah yes... Good. Thank you."

Lying on his stomach, he could no longer meet her gaze. He calmed and controlled the trembling of his hands. She could sense his feelings. Geralt heard the clinking of bottles in her bag and the tinkling of flasks and porcelain jars. He also heard her breathing and felt her warmth against his side. She knelt next to him.

"My injury," he asked to break the unbearable silence, "was difficult?"

"Yes, indeed. A little." A chill entered her voice. "It's often the case with bites. The worst type of injury. But you must be used to them, witcher."

She knows, she searches through my thoughts. Reads them ? Probably not. And I know why... She's afraid.

"Yes, nothing new for you," she repeated, knocking together her glass tools. "I saw that you had some scars... But I managed. I am, you see, a sorceress... and a healer. That's my specialty."

Yes, I was right, he thought. He did not respond.

"Going back to your injury," she continued calmly, "you must know that your pulse, four times slower than that of an ordinary man, saved your life. Otherwise, you would not have survived. I can say that without hesitation. I saw the bandage that you had on your leg. There was something resembling a dressing, but it was a poor imitation." Geralt remained silent.

"Later," she continued, lifting his shirt up to his neck, "the wound became infected, which is normal with bites. The infection was finally controlled. Of course, your witcher elixirs were a great help. Still, I don't understand why you still take hallucinogens. I heard your ravings, Geralt of Rivia."

She reads, he thought, she really reads thoughts. Unless Yurga told her my name. Perhaps I said it during my dreams under the effects of "black gull. " Devil only knows... The knowledge of my name could mean nothing. Nothing. She doesn't know who I am. She is completely unaware of who I am.

He felt her apply to his back a cool and soothing ointment that gave off a strong smell of camphor. Her hands were small and very soft.

"Forgive my conventional methods," she said. "I could reduce your bedsore with the help of magic, but I'm tired from tending to your injury: I'm not feeling very well. I bandaged your leg and healed it as much as necessary. You're no longer in danger. Don't get up for two days. Even veins repaired by magic can rupture and cause terrible bleeding. The scar will remain, of course. A new one for your collection."

"Thank you..." He pressed his cheek against the furs to distort his voice and mask his natural tone: "Might I know to whom I owe my thanks?"

She will not tell me, he thought, or will prefer to lie.

"My name is Visenna."

/ know, he thought.

"I am glad," he said slowly, keeping his cheek to the furs all the while, "I am pleased that our paths have crossed, Visenna."

"By chance," she replied coolly, replacing his shirt on his back and covering it with fur blankets. "The customs official informed me that someone had need of my art. When my presence is necessary, I go. It's a strange habit of mine. Listen: I gave the ointment to the merchant. Ask him to apply it morning and evening. Since he says that you saved his life, he can perform that service for you."

"And me, Visenna? How can I thank you?"

"Don't talk about that. I never take money from witchers. Call it solidarity, if you like, professional solidarity. And sympathy. In the cause of that sympathy I will tell you, listen to one more piece of advice, or if you prefer, the prescription of a healer: stop taking hallucinogens, Geralt. Hallucinogens aren't curative; they don't heal anything."

"Thank you, Visenna, for your help and your advice. I am grateful to you... for everything."

He moved his hand from under the furs and touched the healer's knee. It began to tremble. She took his hand and squeezed it slightly. Geralt carefully freed his fingers to grasp her forearm.

Of course it was the smooth skin of a young girl. The sorceress trembled even more, but did not withdraw her arm. He found the hand of the young woman and squeezed it firmly.

His medallion, hanging around his neck, vibrated in agitation.

"Thank you, Visenna," he repeated, controlling the tremor in his voice. "I'm glad that our paths have crossed."

"It was chance..." she answered again, but this time without coldness in her voice.

"Perhaps it was destiny?" he suggested, surprised that her excitement and nervousness had disappeared without leaving a trace. "Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?"

"Yes," she said, after some time. "I believe in it."

"Do you believe that people bound by fate," he continued, "necessarily meet one another?"

"I believe that too... What are you doing? Don't turn over."

"I want to see your face... Visenna. I want to see your eyes. And you... you can look into mine."

She made a movement as if she would fall to her knees, but she remained at his side. Geralt turned slowly, wincing in pain. The light was bright: someone had thrown more wood on the fire.

The sorceress did not move. She turned her face in profile. The witcher noticed then that her lips trembled. She squeezed his hand hard.

Geralt watched her carefully.

There was no resemblance. Her profile was completely different. A small nose. A narrow chin. The woman said nothing. She finally leaned over and met his eyes. Closely. All without a word.

"Do my improved eyes please you?" he asked calmly. "They're not very common... Do you know, Visenna, what is done to the eyes of witchers to improve them? Do you know that this is not always successful?"

"Stop," she said softly. "Stop it, Geralt."

"Geralt..." He felt suddenly that something had broken in him. "It's Vesemir who called me that. Geralt of Rivia! I even learned to imitate the regional accent. Probably to fill an inner need to belong somewhere. Even if the sentiment is fictitious. Vesemir... gave me that name. He also revealed your identity to me. Not without reluctance."