Time of Contempt (The Witcher) (20 page)

Vilgefortz smiled.

‘I enquired,’ he repeated, ‘as to your views concerning the relationship between men and women.’

‘Regarding what respect of that relationship?’

‘Can obedience, in your opinion, be forced upon women? I’m talking about real women, of course, not just the female of the species. Can a real woman be controlled? Overcome? Made to
surrender to your will? And if so, how? Answer me.’

The ragdoll didn’t take her eyes off them. Yennefer looked away.

‘Did you answer?’

‘Yes, I did.’

With her left hand, the enchantress squeezed his elbow, and with her right squeezed his fingers, which were touching her breasts.

‘How?’

‘You surely know.’

‘You’ve understood,’ said Vilgefortz a moment later. ‘And you’ve probably always understood. And thus you will also understand that if the concept
of will and submission, of commands and obedience, and of male ruler and servant woman will perish and disappear, then unity will be achieved. A community merging into a single entity will be
achieved. All will be as one. And if something like that were to occur, death would lose its meaning. Jan Bekker, who was water gushing from the rock, is present there in the banqueting hall. To
say that Bekker died is like saying that water has died. Look at that painting.’

Geralt looked.

‘It’s unusually beautiful,’ he said after a moment. At once he felt a slight vibration of his witcher’s medallion.

‘Lydia,’ smiled Vilgefortz, ‘thanks for your acknowledgement. And I congratulate you on your taste. The landscape depicts the meeting between Cregennan of Lod and Lara Dorren
aep Shiadhal, the legendary lovers, torn apart and destroyed by the time of contempt. He was a sorcerer and she was an elf, one of the elite of Aen Saevherne, or the Knowing Ones. What might have
been the beginning of reconciliation was transformed into tragedy.’

‘I know that story. I always treated it as a fairytale. What really happened?’

‘That,’ said the sorcerer, becoming serious, ‘nobody knows. I mean almost nobody. Lydia, hang up your picture over here. Geralt, have a look at another of Lydia’s
impressive works. It’s a portrait of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal taken from an ancient miniature.’

‘Congratulations,’ said the Witcher, bowing to Lydia van Bredevoort, finding it hard to keep his voice from quavering. ‘It’s a true masterpiece.’

His tone didn’t quaver, even though Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal looked at him from the portrait with Ciri’s eyes.

‘What happened after that?’

‘Lydia remained in the gallery. The two of us went out onto the terrace. And he enjoyed himself at my expense.’

‘This way, Geralt, if you would. Step only on the dark slabs, please.’

The sea roared below, and the Isle of Thanedd stood in the white foam of the breakers. The waves broke against the walls of Loxia, directly beneath them. Loxia sparkled with lights, as did
Aretuza. The stone block of Garstang towering above them was black and lifeless, however.

‘Tomorrow,’ said the sorcerer, following the Witcher’s gaze, ‘the members of the Chapter and the Council will don their traditional robes: the flowing black cloaks and
pointed hats known to you from ancient prints. We will also arm ourselves with long wands and staffs, thus resembling the wizards and witches parents frighten children with. That is the tradition.
We will go up to Garstang in the company of several other delegates. And there, in a specially prepared chamber, we will debate. The other delegates will await our return and our decisions in
Aretuza.’

‘Are the smaller meetings in Garstang, behind closed doors, also traditional?’

‘But of course. It’s a long tradition and one which has come about through practical considerations. Gatherings of mages are known to be tempestuous and have led to very frank
exchanges of views. During one of them, ball lightning damaged Nina Fioravanti’s coiffure and dress. Nina reinforced the walls of Garstang with an incredibly powerful aura and an anti-magic
blockade, which took her a year to prepare. From that day on, no spells have worked in Garstang and the discussions have proceeded altogether more peacefully. Particularly when it is remembered to
remove all bladed weapons from the delegates.’

‘I see. And that solitary tower on the very summit above Garstang. What is it? Some kind of important building?’

‘It is Tor Lara, the Tower of Gulls. A ruin. Is it important? It probably is.’

‘Probably?’

The sorcerer leaned on the banisters.

‘According to elvish tradition, Tor Lara is connected by a portal to the mysterious, still undiscovered Tor Zireael, the Tower of Swallows.’

‘According to tradition? You haven’t managed to find the portal? I don’t believe you.’

‘You are right not to. We discovered the portal, but it was necessary to block it. There were protests. Everyone was itching to conduct experiments; everyone wanted the fame of being the
first to discover Tor Zireael, the mythical seat of elven mages and sages. But the portal is irreversibly warped and transports people chaotically. There were casualties, so it was blocked up.
Let’s go, Geralt, it’s getting cold. Carefully. Only walk on the dark slabs.’

‘Why only the dark ones?’

‘These buildings are in ruins. Damp, erosion, strong winds, the salt air; they all have a disastrous effect on the walls. Repairs would cost too much, so we make use of illusion instead of
workmen. Prestige, you understand.’

‘It doesn’t apply to everything.’

The sorcerer waved a hand and the terrace vanished. They were standing over a precipice, over an abyss bristling far below with the teeth of rocks jutting from the foam. They were standing on a
narrow belt of dark slabs, stretched like a tightrope between the rocky ledge of Aretuza and the pillar holding up the terrace.

Geralt had difficulty keeping his balance. Had he been a man and not a witcher, he would have failed. But even he was rattled. His sudden movement could not have escaped the attention of the
sorcerer, and his reaction must also have been visible. The wind rocked him on the narrow footbridge, and the abyss called to him with a sinister roaring of the waves.

‘You’re afraid of death,’ noted Vilgefortz with a smile. ‘You are afraid, after all.’

The ragdoll looked at them with button eyes.

‘He tricked you,’ murmured Yennefer, cuddling up to the Witcher. ‘There was no danger. He’s sure to have protected you and himself with a levitational field. He
wouldn’t have taken the risk . . . What happened then?’

‘We went to another wing of Aretuza. He led me to a large chamber, which was probably the office of one of the teachers, or even the rectoress. We sat by a table with an hourglass on it.
The sand was trickling through it. I could smell the fragrance of Lydia’s perfume and knew she had been in the chamber before us . . .’

‘And Vilgefortz?’

‘He asked me a question.’

‘Why didn’t you become a sorcerer, Geralt? Weren’t you ever attracted by the Art? Be honest.’

‘I will. I was.’

‘Why, then, didn’t you follow the voice of that attraction?’

‘I decided it would be wiser to follow the voice of good sense.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Years of practice in the witcher’s trade have taught me not to bite off more than I can chew. Do you know, Vilgefortz, I once knew a dwarf who, as a child, dreamed of being an elf.
What do you think; would he have become one had he followed the voice of attraction?’

‘Is that supposed to be a comparison? A parallel? If so, it’s utterly ill-judged. A dwarf could not become an elf. Not without having an elf for its mother.’

Geralt remained silent for a long time.

‘I get it,’ he finally said. ‘I should have guessed. You’ve been having a root around in my life history. To what purpose, if you don’t mind?’

‘Perhaps,’ smiled the sorcerer faintly. ‘I’m dreaming of a painting in the Gallery of Glory. The two of us seated at a table and on a brass plaque the title:
Vilgefortz of Roggeveen entering into a pact with Geralt of Rivia
.’

‘That would be an allegory,’ said the Witcher, ‘with the title:
Knowledge Triumphing Over Ignorance
. I’d prefer a more realistic painting, entitled:
In Which
Vilgefortz Explains To Geralt What This Is All About
.’

Vilgefortz brought the tips of his fingers together in front of his mouth.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘No.’

‘Have you forgotten? The painting I’m dreaming about hangs in the Gallery of Glory, where future generations, who know perfectly well what it’s all about, what event is
depicted in the picture, can look at it. On the canvas, Vilgefortz and Geralt are negotiating and concluding an agreement, as a result of which Geralt, following the voice – not of some kind
of attraction or predilection, but a genuine vocation – finally joined the ranks of mages. This brings to an end his erstwhile and not particularly sensible existence, which has no future
whatsoever.’

‘Just think,’ said the Witcher after a lengthy silence, ‘that not so long ago I believed that nothing more could astonish me. Believe me, Vilgefortz, I’ll remember this
banquet and this pageant of incredible events for a long time. Worthy of a painting, indeed. The title would be:
Geralt Leaving the Isle of Thanedd, Shaking with Laughter
.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said the sorcerer, leaning forward a little. ‘You lost me with the floweriness of your discourse, so liberally sprinkled with sophisticated
words.’

‘The causes of the misunderstanding are clear to me. We differ too much to understand each other. You are a mighty sorcerer from the Chapter, who has achieved oneness with nature.
I’m a wanderer, a witcher, a mutant, who travels the world and slays monsters for money –’

‘That floweriness,’ interrupted the sorcerer, ‘has been supplanted by banality.’

‘– We differ too greatly,’ said Geralt, not allowing himself to be interrupted, ‘and the minor fact that my mother was, by accident, a sorceress, is unable to erase that
difference. But just out of curiosity: who was
your
mother?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Vilgefortz calmly. The Witcher immediately fell silent.

‘Druids from the Kovir Circle,’ said the sorcerer a moment later, ‘found me in a gutter in Lan Exeter. They took me in and raised me. To be a druid, of course. Do you know what
a druid is? It’s a kind of mutant, a wanderer, who travels the world and bows to sacred oaks.’

The Witcher said nothing.

‘And later,’ continued Vilgefortz, ‘my gifts revealed themselves during certain druidical rituals. Gifts which clearly and undeniably pointed to my origins. I was begat by two
people, evidently unplanned, and at least one of them was a sorcerer.’

Geralt said nothing.

‘The person who discovered my modest abilities was, of course, a sorcerer, whom I met by accident,’ continued Vilgefortz calmly. ‘He offered me a tremendous gift: the chance of
an education and of self-improvement, with a view to joining the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.’

‘And you,’ said the Witcher softly, ‘accepted the offer.’

‘No,’ said Vilgefortz, his voice becoming increasingly cold and unpleasant. ‘I rejected it in a rude – even boorish – way. I unloaded all my anger on the old fool.
I wanted him to feel guilty; he and his entire magical fraternity. Guilty, naturally, for the gutter in Lan Exeter; guilty that one or two detestable conjurers – bastards without hearts or
human feelings – had thrown me into that gutter at birth, and not before, when I wouldn’t have survived. The sorcerer, it goes without saying, didn’t understand; wasn’t
concerned by what I told him. He shrugged and went on his way, by doing so branding himself and his fellows with the stigma of insensitive, arrogant, whoresons, worthy of the greatest
contempt.’

Geralt said nothing.

‘I’d had a gutful of druids,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘So I gave up my sacred oak groves and set off into the world. I did a variety of things. I’m still ashamed of some
of them. I finally became a mercenary. My life after that unfolded, as you might imagine, predictably. Victorious soldier, defeated soldier, marauder, robber, rapist, murderer, and finally a
fugitive fleeing the noose. I fled to the ends of the world. And there, at the end of the world, I met a woman. A sorceress.’

‘Be careful,’ whispered the Witcher, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful, Vilgefortz, that the similarities you’re desperately searching for don’t lead you too
far.’

‘The similarities are over,’ said the sorcerer without lowering his gaze, ‘since I couldn’t cope with the feelings I felt for that woman. I couldn’t understand her
feelings, and she didn’t try to help me with them. I left her. Because she was promiscuous, arrogant, spiteful, unfeeling and cold. Because it was impossible to dominate her, and her
domination of me was humiliating. I left her because I knew she was only interested in me because my intelligence, personality and fascinating mystery obscured the fact that I wasn’t a
sorcerer, and it was usually only sorcerers she would honour with more than one night. I left her because . . . because she was like my mother. I suddenly understood that what I felt for her was
not love at all, but a feeling which was considerably more complicated, more powerful but more difficult to classify: a mixture of fear, regret, fury, pangs of conscience and the need for
expiation, a sense of guilt, loss, and hurt. A perverse need for suffering and atonement. What I felt for that woman was hate.’

Geralt remained silent. Vilgefortz was looking to one side.

‘I left her,’ he said after a while. ‘And then I couldn’t live with the emptiness which engulfed me. And I suddenly understood it wasn’t the absence of a woman that
causes that emptiness, but the lack of everything I had been feeling. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? I imagine I don’t need to finish; you can guess what happened next. I became a
sorcerer. Out of hatred. And only then did I understand how stupid I was. I mistook stars reflected in a pond at night for those in the sky.’

‘As you rightly observed, the parallels between us aren’t completely parallel,’ murmured Geralt. ‘In spite of appearances, we have little in common, Vilgefortz. What did
you want to prove by telling me your story? That the road to wizardly excellence, although winding and difficult, is available to anyone? Even – excuse my parallel – to bastards or
foundlings, wanderers or witchers—’