The Sword of Destiny (42 page)

"Shut up, Geralt, shut up."

"You tell me today that you believe in destiny. At the time, did you believe in it already? Yes, certainly. You already saw that destiny would ordain our meeting. Even so, it should be noted that you yourself contributed little toward its realization."

The woman still said nothing.

"I always wanted... I asked myself what I would say when we met. I thought about the question I would ask you. I imagined being able to feel a perverse pleasure..."

A tear beaded distinctly on the healer's cheek. Geralt felt his throat tighten painfully. He was tired, sleepy, weak.

"In the light of day..." he murmured, "tomorrow, in the light of the sun, I will look into your eyes, Visenna... And I will ask my question. Or perhaps I won't ask, because it's too late. Was it destiny? Yes, Yen was right. It is not enough to be, yourself, subject to destiny. There must be something more... But I will look into your eyes tomorrow... In the light of the sun."

"No," she replied softly, in a voice of velvet that pierced through and summoned up the layers of memory that were missing, nonexistent, but remained nevertheless.

"If," he protested. "If I want to..."

"No. Sleep now. When you wake up, you will stop wanting that. What good is it to lock eyes by the light of the sun? What will that change? We can't turn back time. We can't change anything. What sense is there in asking me that question, Geralt? The fact that I don't know of any response that will really give you a perverse pleasure? That will give us that mutual destruction? No, we will not look into each other's eyes. Hypnotize yourself, Geralt. Between us, know that it wasn't Vesemir who gave you that name. Even if this does not change anything and does not undo the past, I want you to know that. Farewell, take care of yourself. Don't try to find me..."

"Visenna..."

"No, Geralt. You're going to fall asleep. And me... I will have been a dream. Goodbye."

"No, Visenna!"

"Sleep!" she intoned in a velvet voice that broke the witcher's will and tore it like

tissue.

"Sleep."

Geralt fell asleep.

VI

"Are we already in the territory of Outer Rivia, Yurga?"

"Since yesterday, my lord Geralt. We will reach the Yarouga river soon. On the other side, we will be in my home. Look, even the horses are walking more quickly and leaning their heads forward. They've picked up the smell of the barn and the house."

"The house... You live within the castle's fortifications?"

"No, in the suburb."

"Interesting." The witcher looked around. "There's practically no evidence of the war. It was said, however, that the country was horribly destroyed."

"Well," Yurga replied, "there is a shortage of everything but ruins... at least, that's not what's missing. Look carefully: almost every house, every courtyard, has a brand new frame. Beyond the river, you see, there it's even worse, where the fire burned everything to the ground... War is war, but one must keep on living. We suffered the worst torments when the Black Ones crossed through our lands. It seemed that they wanted to turn everything into a desert. Many of those who fled then have never returned. In their place, newcomers have settled. Life must go on."

"That's right," murmured Geralt, "life must go on. Regardless of the past... one must keep on living..."

"Absolutely right. Here! Look at it this way. I sewed and patched your trousers. Now they are like new. Just like this land, my lord Geralt. The war tore and trampled it under iron horseshoes; bruised and bloodied it; but the land renews itself, becoming fertile once more: the bodies themselves work to enrich the soil, even if it is difficult to work the land because of the bones and the armor cluttering the fields. Earth will overcome iron."

"You don't fear the return of the Nilfgaardians... the Black Ones? Now they know the path through the mountains..."

"Well of course, we live in fear. But what can we do? Sit down and cry? Tremble? One must keep on living. Come what may. Whatever fate has in store for us, we can't avoid it."

"You believe, then, in destiny?"

"How could I not believe in it? After our meeting on the enchanted bridge where you saved my life! Oh, master witcher, you'll see that my Chrysididae will be kissing your feet..."

"Stop with that. In truth, I am the one indebted to you. On the bridge... I was only doing my job, Yurga. I was practicing my profession, which consists of protecting humans for money, not for charity. Yurga, you know what people say about witchers? That no-one knows which is worse... them, or the monsters that they destroy."

"That's all wrong, lord, I don't understand why you talk like that. You think that I don't have my own eyes to see with? You are cut from the same cloth as that healer..."

"Visenna..."

"She didn't tell me her name. She came to us and offered her services without hesitation, knowing that we needed her. That evening, by the time I got down from my horse, she was already taking care of you. Oh, my lord, she took such good care of your leg. The air was filled with magic and we all fled, terrified, into the forest. And then the blood ran from her nose. Magic, apparently, is not easy. She bandaged you with such delicacy, like..."

"Like a mother?" Geralt asked through clenched teeth.

"Effectively. That's right. And when you were asleep..."

"Yes, Yurga?"

"White as a sheet, she was barely on her feet. But she came to ask us if any of the rest of us needed her help. The tar-maker, who had his hand crushed by a tree, benefited from her care. And she didn't take a cent. She even left the medicine. I know, Geralt, that there are many things said in the world about witchers and sorceresses, but not here. We, the people of Upper Sodden, of Outer Rivia, we know the truth. We need sorceresses too much not to know who they really are. Their memories are not peddled by storytellers or gossips, but etched in stone. You saw for yourself back in the woods. Besides, my lord, you certainly know better than I do. The whole world knows about the battle that was fought here less than a year ago. You must have heard about it."

"I haven't been back here for over a year. I was in the North. But I heard talk... The second battle of Sodden..."

"Exactly. You will see the hill and the rock. Before, the hill had the ordinary name of 'Mount Coulemelle,' but now all the world knows it as the Sorcerers' mountain or the mountain of the fourteen. Because twenty-two sorcerers joined the battle and fourteen died. It was a terrible struggle, master Geralt. The ground rose up, the sky spat fiery rain. Lightning struck. Corpses littered the ground. But the sorcerers at last vanquished the Black Ones and snuffed out the power that animated them. Fourteen of them did not return. Fourteen of them gave their lives... What's wrong, my lord? What is it?"

"Nothing. Continue, Yurga."

"The battle was terrible, oh! Without the sorcerers on the hill, we surely would not be able to talk like this today, you and I, on the tranquil road to my house, because it wouldn't exist anymore, and neither would I, and perhaps you wouldn't either... Yes, we are indebted to all those sorcerers. Fourteen of them died in our defense, we the people of Sodden and Outer Rivia. Of course there were others who fought as well: warriors, nobles and peasants alike, anyone who could lay hands on a pitchfork or an ax, or even a stake... All acted with courage. Many of them died. But the sorcerers... Nothing is more natural for a warrior than to die on the field of battle, and then, that life is short anyway... But sorcerers can live as long as they like. Even so, they did not hesitate."

"They did not hesitate," repeated the witcher, wiping his forehead. "They did not hesitate. And me, I was in the North..."

"What's wrong, my lord?"

"Nothing."

"Yes... All of us, in the area, we leave flowers on that hill and through May, Belleteyn, the fire always burns. It will burn forever and ever. These fourteen sorcerers will live eternally in the memories of men. Living in memory, master Geralt, it's... it's something more!"

"You're right, Yurga."

"Every child knows the names of the fourteen carved in stone at the top of the hill. You don't believe me? Listen: Axel known as Raby, Triss Merigold, Atlan Kerk, Vanielle of Bruga, Dagobert of Vole..."

"Stop, Yurga."

"What's wrong, my lord? You're as pale as death."

"Nothing."

VII

He climbed the hill very slowly, carefully, attentive to the work of tendons and muscles after their magical healing. Despite being completely healed, the wound still required his attention, and he took care not to put his full weight on the leg. It was hot. The smell of the grass intoxicated him and clouded his mind, but it was pleasant.

The obelisk had not been installed in the center of the plateau at the top of the hill, but further down, behind a row of sharp stones. If Geralt had come before sunset, the shadow cast on the standing stone by the row of stones would accurately represent the perimeter and indicate the direction in which each sorcerer's face was turned during the battle. He looked in each direction, over the endless rolling fields. If there were any bones left - he was certain -they were covered by the abundant grass. A hawk circled in the distance, hovering serenely, with wings outstretched: the only movement in a landscape petrified by the heat wave.

The base of the obelisk was large. To encircle it would require at least four or five people with arms outstretched. It was obvious that it would have been impossible to transport it so far without resorting to magic. The face of the standing stone that faced the row of stones had been meticulously polished.

On it had been engraved in runic characters the names of the fourteen deceased.

He appproached it slowly. Yurga, indeed, was right. At the foot of the obelisk, common flowers, wildflowers, poppies, lupines, forget-me-nots, had been placed.

Triss Merigold, chestnut hair, cheerful, ready to burst into laughter for no reason at all, like a child. He liked her. It had been mutual.

Lawdbor of Murivel, with whom Geralt had avoided a fight in the city of Vizima, on a day when he had caught the witcher in the act of manipulating dice with a discreet telekinesis.

Lytta Neyd, alias Coral. She had been dubbed with nickname because of the color of the cream she applied to her lips. She had once spoken ill of Geralt to the King Belohun, who then imprisoned him for a week in a dungeon. As soon as he was released, he went to find her to ask for her reasons and had found himself in bed with the beautiful woman, without knowing how, for another week.

Gorazd the Elder who had wanted to pay him 100 marks in exchange for the opportunity to examine his eyes and even 1,000 for the chance to dissect him, "not necessarily today," he had clarified.

He waited three more years.

Geralt heard from behind him a quiet rustle. He turned.

She was barefoot, dressed in a simple linen dress. Long fair hair tumbled free over her shoulders. A daisy-chain crown adorned her brow.

"Greetings to you," he said.

Without answering, she looked at him with eyes that were blue and cold.

Geralt noticed that she was not tanned. It was strange, because the skin of the country girls, scorched by the sun, was ordinarily dark by the end of the summer. Her face and what was visible of her shoulders was missing the golden tint.

"You've brought flowers?"

She smiled and lowered her eyelids. He felt a chill set in. She passed by him without a word and knelt at the foot of the monument, touching the stone with her hand.

"I don't bring flowers," she said, lifting her head. "Those that have been brought here are for me."

He watched her carefully. She knelt, her body hiding the last name engraved on the stone. The girl emitted a glow of light against the base of the dark rock.

"Who are you?" he asked slowly.

"You do not know?"

/ know, he thought, looking at the icy blue of her eyes. Yes, I think that I know.

Geralt felt calm. He could not be otherwise. Not now.

"I have always been curious to see you, madam."

"You don't have to give me such a title," she replied coldly. "We have known each other for years, haven't we?"

"We know each other," he agreed. "They say that you follow in my steps."

"I go my own way. But you, you had never, until just now, looked behind you. You turned back today for the first time."

Geralt remained silent. Tired, he had nothing to say.

"How... How will it happen?" he asked her at last, coldly and without emotion.

"I will take you by the hand," she replied, looking him straight in the eye. "I will take you by the hand and lead you across the meadow, through a cold and wet fog."

"And after? What is there beyond the fog?"

"Nothing," she replied, smiling. "After that, there is nothing."

"You have followed me step by step," he said, "cutting down the ones in my path. Why? So that I would be alone, isn't that right? And finally begin to know fear? I'll tell you the truth. You have always frightened me. I didn't turn back for fear of seeing you behind me. I was always afraid. I have lived my life in fear, until today..."

"Until today?"

"Yes. We stand face to face, but I don't feel any anxiety. In taking everything from me, you have also stripped me of fear."

"Why are your eyes, then, filled with terror, Geralt of Rivia? Your hands shake. You are pale. Why? Are you afraid to read the fourteenth name engraved on the obelisk? If you like, I can tell you the name."

"No, you don't need to. I know whose name it is. The circle closes. The snake bites his own tail. So be it. You and your name. The flowers. For you and for me. The fourteenth name engraved at the base, the name that I gave my heart to by night and by the light of the sun, in frost, drought, and rain. No, I will not speak it now."

"But yes, speak it."

"Yennefer... Yennefer de Vengerberg."

"But the flowers are for me."

"End this," he managed to say. "Take... take my hand."

She stood and approached him. Geralt felt a chill, hard and penetrating.