Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“I have no need,” the stranger said, remaining where he stood. “My weapons follow me.” Two young women came out from behind the ruins, treading with soft, sure steps. The crowd immediately parted, then stepped back and thinned out.

“Hey, stop there,” the man in the dark brown tunic said to him. “You’ve forgotten something.” “What is that… sir?” “You drew a knife on me.” The taller of the women suddenly swayed, legs planted widely apart, and twisted her hips. Her sabre, which no one saw her draw, hissed sharply through the air. The spotty-faced man’s head flew upwards in an arc and fell into the gaping opening to the dungeon. His body toppled stiffly and heavily, like a tree being felled, among the crushed bricks. The crowd let out a scream. The second woman, hand on her sword hilt, whirled around nimbly, protecting her partner’s back. Needlessly. The crowd, stumbling and falling over on the rubble, fled towards the town as fast as they could. The Alderman loped at the front with impressive strides, outdistancing the huge butcher by only a few yards.

“Yes,” Borch said, picking a bone clean. “Let us continue our talk, if you will. I understand you aren’t keen on being placed on either side. You do your job.” “That’s correct.” “But you cannot escape the conflict between Chaos and Order. Although it was your comparison, you are not a farrier. I’ve seen you work. You go down into a dungeon among some ruins and come out with a slaughtered basilisk. There is, comrade, a difference between shoeing horses and killing basilisks. You said that if the payment is fair, you’ll hurry to the end of the world and dispatch the monster you’re asked to. Let’s say a fierce dragon is wreaking havoc on a—” “Bad example,” Geralt interrupted. “You see, right away you’ve mixed up Chaos and Order. Because I do not kill dragons; and they, without doubt, represent Chaos.” “How so?” Three Jackdaws licked his fingers. “Well, I never! After all, among all monsters, dragons are probably the most bestial, the cruellest and fiercest. The most revolting of reptiles. They attack people, breathe fire and carry off, you know, virgins. There’s no shortage of tales like that. It can’t be that you, a witcher, don’t have a few dragons on your trophy list.” “I don’t hunt dragons,” Geralt said dryly. “I hunt forktails, for sure. And dracolizards. And flying drakes. But not true dragons; the green, the black or the red. Take note, please.” “You astonish me,” Three Jackdaws said. “Very well, I’ve taken note. In any case, that’s enough about dragons for the moment,...

“And so, Geralt,” he said. “You don’t hunt dragons; neither green nor any other colour. I’ve made a note of it. And why, may I ask, only those three colours?” “Four, to be precise.” “You mentioned three.” “Dragons interest you, Borch. For any particular reason?” “No. Pure curiosity.” “Aha. Well, about those colours: it’s customary to define true dragons like that, although they are not precise terms. Green dragons, the most common, are actually greyish, like ordinary dracolizards. Red dragons are in fact reddish or brick-red. It’s customary to call the large dark brown ones ‘black.’ White dragons are the rarest. I’ve never seen one. They occur in the distant North. Reputedly.” “Interesting. And do you know what other dragons I’ve also heard about?” “I do,” Geralt sipped his beer. “The same ones I’ve heard about. Golden dragons. There are no such creatures.” “On what grounds do you claim that? Because you’ve never seen one? Apparently, you haven’t seen a white one either.” “That’s not the point. Beyond the seas, in Ofir and Zangvebar, there are white horses with black stripes. I haven’t seen them, but I know they exist. But golden dragons are mythical creatures. Fabled. Like the phoenix, let’s say. There are no phoenixes or golden dragons.” Véa, leaning on her elbows, looked at him curiously. “You must know what you’re talking about, you’re a witcher,” Borch ladled beer from the keg, “but I think that every myth, every fable, must have some roots. Something lies among those...

“What is your real name?” Geralt asked the one who had remained at the table. Véa flashed her white teeth. Her blouse was very loosely laced, almost to the limits of possibility. The Witcher had no doubt it was intentionally provocative. “Alvéaenerle.” “Pretty.” The Witcher was sure the Zerrikanian would purse her lips and wink at him. He was not mistaken. “Véa?” “Mm?” “Why do you ride with Borch? You, free warriors? Would you mind telling me?” “Mm.” “Mm, what?” “He is…” the Zerrikanian, frowning, searched for the words. “He is… the most… beautiful.”

Not for the first time, the criteria by which women judged the attractiveness of men remained a mystery to him.

“I know it’s difficult to choose,” said Three Jackdaws, understandingly. “I occasionally have difficulty myself. Never mind, we’ll give it some thought in the tub. Hey, girls. Help me up the stairs!”

“A dragon is a magical creature and you can’t kill it any other way than with spells. If anybody can deal with it then it’s that sorceress who rode through yesterday.”

“A sorceress,” the guard repeated, “I told you.” “Did she give her name?” “She did, but I’ve forgotten it. She had a safe-conduct. She was young, comely, in her own way, but those eyes… You know how it is, sire. You come over all cold when they look at you.” “Know anything about this, Dandelion? Who could it be?” “No,” the bard grimaced. “Young, comely and ‘those eyes.’ Some help that is. They’re all like that. Not one of them that I know—and I know plenty—looks older than twenty-five, thirty; though some of them, I’ve heard, can recall the times when the forest soughed as far as where Novigrad stands today. Anyway, what are elixirs and mandrake for? And they also sprinkle mandrake in their eyes to make them shine. As women will.” “Was her hair red?” the Witcher asked. “No, sire,” the decurion said. “Coal-black.” “And her horse, what colour was it? Chestnut with a white star?” “No. Black, like her hair. Well, gentlemen, I’m telling you, she’ll kill the dragon. A dragon’s a job for a sorcerer. Human strength isn’t enough against it.”

Drinking standing up, in a rush and without due reverence, does not become the nobility.”

“I’ll tell you why not. The advantage of men over other races and species, the fight for their due place in nature, for living space, can only be won when nomadism, wandering from place to place in search of sustenance in accordance with nature’s calendar, is finally eliminated. Otherwise the proper rhythm of reproduction will not be achieved, since human children are dependent for too long. Only a woman safe and secure behind town walls or in a stronghold can bear children according to the proper rhythm, which means once a year. Fecundity, Dorregaray, is growth, is the condition for survival and domination. And now we come to dragons. Only a dragon, and no other monster, can threaten a town or stronghold. Were dragons not to be wiped out, people would—for their own safety—disperse, instead of cleaving together, because dragon’s fire in a densely populated settlement is a nightmare, means hundreds of victims, and terrible destruction. That is why dragons must be utterly wiped out, Dorregaray.” Dorregaray looked at her with a strange smile on his face.

“Yennefer,” the Witcher said coldly, “I don’t understand. What do you want with that dragon? Does the yellowness of its scales dazzle you to that degree? You don’t suffer from poverty, after all. You have numerous sources of income; you’re famous. What are you about? Just don’t talk about a calling, I beg you.” Yennefer was silent, then finally, twisting her lips, aimed a powerful kick at a stone lying in the grass. “There’s someone who can help me, Geralt. Apparently, it’s… you know what I’m talking about… Apparently it isn’t irreversible. There’s a chance. I could still have… Do you understand?” “I do.” “It’s a complex operation, costly. But in exchange for a golden dragon… Geralt?” The Witcher remained silent. “When we were hanging on the bridge,” the sorceress said, “you asked me for something. I’ll meet your request. In spite of everything.” The Witcher smiled sadly and touched the obsidian star on Yennefer’s neck with his index finger. “It’s too late, Yen. We aren’t hanging now. It’s stopped mattering to me. In spite of everything.” He expected the worst: a cascade of fire, lightning, a smack in the face, abuse, curses. He was surprised just to see the suppressed trembling of her lips. Yennefer slowly turned away. Geralt regretted his words. He regretted the emotion which had engendered them. The limit of possibility overstepped, now snapped like a lute string. He looked at Dandelion and saw the troubadour quickly turn his head away and avoid his gaze.

“Forgive me my frankness and forthrightness, Yennefer. It is written all over your faces, I don’t even have to try to read your thoughts. You were made for each other, you and the Witcher. But nothing will come of it. Nothing. I’m sorry.” “I know,” Yennefer blanched slightly. “I know, Villentretenmerth. But I would also like to believe there are no limits of possibility. Or at least I would like to believe that they are still very far away.” Véa walked over, touched Geralt’s shoulder, and quickly uttered a few words. The dragon laughed. “Geralt, Véa says she will long remember the tub at the Pensive Dragon. She hopes we’ll meet again some day.” “What?” Yennefer answered, narrowing her eyes. “Nothing,” the Witcher said quickly, “Villentretenmerth…” “Yes, Geralt of Rivia?” “You can assume any form. Any that you wish.” “Indeed.” “Why then, a man? Why Borch with three black birds on his coat of arms?” The dragon smiled cheerfully. “I don’t know, Geralt, in what circumstances the distant ancestors of our races encountered one another for the first time. But the fact is that for dragons, there is nothing more repugnant than man. Man arouses instinctive, irrational disgust in a dragon. With me it’s different. To me you’re… likeable. Farewell.” It was not a gradual, blurred transformation, or a hazy, pulsating trembling as with an illusion. It was as sudden as the blink of an eye. Where a second before had stood a curly-haired knight in a tunic decorated with three black birds, no...

“Do you know what the name of this town means? Aedd Gynvael?” “No. Is it in the elven speech?” “Yes. It means a shard of ice.” “Somehow, it doesn’t suit this lousy dump.” “Among the elves,” the sorceress whispered pensively, “there is a legend about a Winter Queen who travels the land during snowstorms in a sleigh drawn by white horses. As she rides, she casts hard, sharp, tiny shards of ice around her, and woe betide anyone whose eye or heart is pierced by one of them. That person is then lost. No longer will anything gladden them; they find anything that doesn’t have the whiteness of snow ugly, obnoxious, repugnant. They will not find peace, will abandon everything, and will set off after the Queen, in pursuit of their dream and love. Naturally, they will never find it and will die of longing. Apparently here, in this town, something like that happened in times long gone. It’s a beautiful legend, isn’t it?” “Elves can couch everything in pretty words,” he muttered drowsily, running his lips over her shoulder. “It’s not a legend at all, Yen. It’s a pretty description of the hideous phenomenon that is the Wild Hunt, the curse of several regions. An inexplicable, collective madness, compelling people to join a spectral cavalcade rushing across the sky. I’ve seen it. Indeed, it often occurs during the winter. I was offered rather good money to put an end to that blight, but I didn’t take it. There’s no way of dealing with the Wild Hunt…” “Witcher,” she whispered, kissing his...

“My wish, Istredd,” the Witcher drawled, shooing away the insects fluttering in front of his face, “is for you to stop pushing in between me and Yennefer. I don’t care much about the propositions you’re offering her. You could have proposed to her when she was with you. Long ago. Because then was then, and now is now. Now she’s with me. You want me to get out of the way, make things easy for you? I decline. Not only will I not help you, but I’ll hinder you, as well as my modest abilities allow. As you see, I’m your equal in candour.” “You have no right to refuse me. Not you.” “What do you take me for, Istredd?” The sorcerer looked him in the eye and leaned across the table. “A fleeting romance. A passing fascination, at best a whim, an adventure, of which Yenna has had hundreds, because Yenna loves to play with emotions; she’s impulsive and unpredictable in her whims. That’s what I take you for, since having exchanged a few words with you I’ve rejected the theory that she treats you entirely as an object. And, believe me, that happens with her quite often.” “You misunderstood the question.” “You’re mistaken; I didn’t. But I’m intentionally talking solely about Yenna’s emotions. For you are a witcher and you cannot experience any emotions. You do not want to agree to my request, because you think she matters to you, you think she… Geralt, you’re only with her because she wants it, and you’ll only be with her as long as she wants it. And what you feel is a projection of her ...

“Enough,” Geralt interrupted harshly, perhaps even a little too harshly. “Stop stubbornly denying me rights. I’ve had enough of it, do you hear? I told you our rights are equal. No, dammit, mine are greater.” “Really?” the sorcerer said, paling somewhat, which caused Geralt unspeakable pleasure. “For what reason?” The Witcher wondered for a moment and decided to finish him off. “For the reason,” he shot back, “that last night she made love with me, and not with you.” Istredd pulled the skull closer to himself and stroked it. His hand, to Geralt’s dismay, did not even twitch. “Does that, in your opinion, give you any rights?” “Only one. The right to draw a few conclusions.” “Ah,” the sorcerer said slowly. “Very well. As you wish. She made love with me this morning. Draw your own conclusions, you have the right. I already have.” The silence lasted a long time. Geralt desperately searched for words. He found none. None at all. “This conversation is pointless,” he finally said, getting up, angry at himself, because it sounded blunt and stupid. “I’m going.” “Go to hell,” Istredd said, equally bluntly, not looking at him.

“Then lash your white horses, Yen. May they race north, where a thaw never sets in. I hope it never sets in. I want to get to your ice castle as quickly as I can.”

“That castle doesn’t exist,” Yennefer said, her mouth twitching. She grimaced. “It’s a symbol. And our sleigh ride is the pursuit of a dream which is unattainable. For I, the Elf Queen, desire warmth. That is my secret. Which is why, every year, my sleigh carries me amidst a blizzard through some little town and every year someone dazzled by my spell gets their harness caught in my runners. Every year. Every year someone new. Endlessly. Because the warmth I so desire at the same time blights the spell, blights the magic and the charm. My sweetheart, stabbed with that little icy star, suddenly becomes an ordinary nobody. And I become, in his thawed out eyes, no better than all the other… mortal women…”

“I am a sorceress, Geralt… The power over matter which I possess is a gift. A reciprocated gift. For it I paid… with everything I possessed. Nothing remained.”

“Emotions, whims and lies, fascinations and games. Feelings and their absence. Gifts, which may not be accepted. Lies and truth. What is truth? The negation of lies? Or the statement of a fact? And if the fact is a lie, what then is the truth? Who is full of feelings which torment him, and who is the empty carapace of a cold skull? Who? What is truth, Geralt? What is the essence of truth?”

“Istredd,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t drag other people into your suicide. If you must, hang yourself in the stable from your reins.”

“Take those rags,” the blonde woman screamed, the frills on her plump breasts swaying gracefully, “and get out of my sight! Don’t set foot here again, you bastard!” “These aren’t mine,” Dandelion said in astonishment, taking a pair of men’s trousers with odd-coloured legs from the ground. “I’ve never had trousers like these in my life.” “Get out! I don’t want to see you anymore! You… you… Do you know what you’re like in bed? Pathetic! Pathetic, do you hear! Do you hear, everybody?”

“She doesn’t have a crossbow in the house, does she?” the Witcher asked anxiously. “It can’t be ruled out,” said the poet, lifting his head up towards the balcony. “She has a load of junk in there. Did you see those trousers?” “Perhaps we ought to get out of here? You can come back when she calms down.” “Hell no,” Dandelion grimaced. “I shall never go back to a house from which calumny and copper pots are showered on me. I consider this fickle relationship over. Let’s just wait till she throws my… Oh, mother, no! Vespula! My lute!”

“You cannot defeat me,” the doppler snarled. “Because I am you, Geralt.” “You are mistaken, Tellico,” the Witcher said softly. “Drop your sword and resume Biberveldt’s form. Otherwise you’ll regret it, I warn you.” “I am you,” the doppler repeated. “You will not gain an advantage over me. You cannot defeat me, because I am you!” “You cannot have any idea what it means to be me, mimic.” Tellico lowered the hand gripping the sword. “I am you,” he repeated. “No,” the Witcher countered, “you are not. And do you know why? Because you’re a poor, little, good-natured doppler. A doppler who, after all, could have killed Biberveldt and buried his body in the undergrowth, by so doing gaining total safety and utter certainty that he would not be unmasked, ever, by anybody, including the halfling’s spouse, the famous Gardenia Biberveldt. But you didn’t kill him, Tellico, because you didn’t have the courage. Because you’re a poor, little, good-natured doppler, whose close friends call him Dudu. And whoever you might change into you’ll always be the same. You only know how to copy what is good in us, because you don’t understand the bad in us. That’s what you are, doppler.”

Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun It must be thus, for fire still smoulders in us all An eternal fire, hope for each one. “Pass that on to Dandelion, if you remember,” he called, “and tell him that Winter is a lousy title. The ballad should be called The Eternal Fire. Farewell, Witcher!”

“I knew it!” the mermaid screamed shrilly. “I knew it! Excuses, foolish, naive excuses, not a bit of sacrifice! Whoever loves makes sacrifices! I made sacrifices for him, every day I hauled myself out onto the rocks for him, I wore out the scales on my bottom, frayed my fins; I caught colds for him! And he will not sacrifice those two hideous pegs for me? Love doesn’t just mean taking, one also has to be able to give up things, to make sacrifices! Tell him that!”

“Kiss a dog’s arse! I’m in charge on this cog!”

“Don’t interrupt! I haven’t finished yet! I’m healthy, normal and ripe for spawning, and if he really desires me, he must have a tail, fins and everything a normal merman has. Otherwise I don’t want to know him!”

“Ballads aren’t written to be believed. They are written to move their audience.

“Do you know what your problem is, Geralt? You think you’re different. You flaunt your otherness, what you consider abnormal. You aggressively impose that abnormality on others, not understanding that for people who think clear-headedly you’re the most normal man under the sun, and they all wish that everybody was so normal. What of it that you have quicker reflexes than most and vertical pupils in sunlight? That you can see in the dark like a cat? That you know a few spells? Big deal. I, my dear, once knew an innkeeper who could fart for ten minutes without stopping, playing the tune to the psalm Greet us, greet us, O, Morning Star. Heedless of his—let’s face it—unusual talent, that innkeeper was the most normal among the normal; he had a wife, children and a grandmother afflicted by palsy—” “What does that have to do with Essi Daven? Could you explain?” “Of course. You wrongfully thought, Geralt, that Little Eye was interested in you out of morbid, downright perverted curiosity, that she looks at you as though you were a queer fish, a two-headed calf or a salamander in a menagerie. And you immediately became annoyed, gave her a rude, undeserved reprimand at the first opportunity, struck back at a blow she hadn’t dealt. I witnessed it, after all. I didn’t witness the further course of events, of course, but I noticed your flight from the room and saw her glowing cheeks when you returned. Yes, Geralt. I’m alerting you to a mistake, and you have already made it. You wanted ...

“Perhaps because if you were the heartless professional you pretend to be, you would have tried to push up the price. But you didn’t say a word about your fee. Oh, never mind, enough of all that. Are we going back?”

“I can see that pearl,” he said with effort, “set in silver, in a little silver flower with intricate petals. I see it around your neck, on a delicate silver chain, worn like I wear my medallion. That will be your talisman, Essi. A talisman, which will protect you from all evil.” “My talisman,” she repeated, lowering her head. “My pearl, which I shall set in silver, and from which I shall never part. My jewel, which I was given instead of… Can a talisman like that bring me luck?” “Yes, Essi. Be sure of it.” “Can I stay here a little longer? With you?” “You may.”

Several years later, Dandelion could have changed the contents of the ballad and written about what had really occurred. He did not. For the true story would not have moved anyone. Who would have wanted to hear that the Witcher and Little Eye parted and never, ever, saw each other again? About how four years later Little Eye died of the smallpox during an epidemic raging in Vizima? About how he, Dandelion, had carried her out in his arms between corpses being cremated on funeral pyres and had buried her far from the city, in the forest, alone and peaceful, and, as she had asked, buried two things with her: her lute and her sky blue pearl. The pearl from which she was never parted.

No, Dandelion stuck with his first version. And he never sang it. Never. To no one. Right before the dawn, while it was still dark, a hungry, vicious werewolf crept up to their camp, but saw that it was Dandelion, so he listened for a moment and then went on his way.

Long ago, thought Geralt, before they shot to kill, they gave two warnings. Even three. Long ago, he thought, continuing on his way. Long ago. Well, that’s progress.

“I am Gwynbleidd. White Wolf. Lady Eithné knows me. I am travelling to her as an envoy. I have been in Brokilon before. In Duén Canell.”

“She’ll put you in your place, you’ll see. No one takes liberties with my grandmamma. When she stamps her foot the greatest knights and warriors kneel before her; I’ve seen it myself. And if one of them is disobedient, then it’s ‘chop’ and off with his head.”

“Very well, I’ll tell you. My mama was a witch, so you’d better watch your step. And my papa was enchanted, too. It was all told to me by one of my nannies, and when grandmamma found out about it, there was a dreadful to-do. Because I’m destined, you know?” “To do what?” “I don’t know,” Ciri said intently. “But I’m destined. That’s what my nanny said. And grandmamma said she won’t let anyone… that the whole ruddy castle will collapse first. Do you understand? And nanny said that nothing, nothing at all, can help with destiny. Ha! And then nanny wept and grandmamma yelled. Do you see? I’m destined. I won’t be the wife of that silly Kistrin. Geralt?”

“Tell me a story.” He laughed again, put his hands under his head and looked up at the stars twinkling beyond the branches above their heads. “There was once… a cat,” he began. “An ordinary, tabby mouser. And one day that cat went off, all by itself, on a long journey to a terrible, dark forest. He walked… And he walked… And he walked…” “Don’t think,” Ciri mumbled, cuddling up to him, “that I’ll fall asleep before he gets there.” “Keep quiet, rascal. So… he walked and he walked until he came across a fox. A red fox.” Braenn sighed and lay down beside the Witcher, on the other side, and also snuggled up a little. “Very well,” Ciri sniffed. “Say what happened next.” “The fox looked at the cat. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘I’m a cat,’ said the cat. ‘Ha,’ said the fox. ‘But aren’t you afraid, cat, to be roaming the forest alone? What will you do if the king comes a-hunting? With hounds and mounted hunters and beaters? I tell you, cat,’ said the fox, ‘the chase is a dreadful hardship to creatures like you and me. You have a pelt, I have a pelt, and hunters never spare creatures like us, because hunters have sweethearts and lovers, and their little hands and necks get cold, so they make muffs and collars for those strumpets to wear.’” “What are muffs?” Ciri asked. “Don’t interrupt. And the fox went on. ‘I, cat, know how to outwit them; I have one thousand, two hundred and eighty-six ways to outfox those hunters, so cunning am I. And you, cat, how many ways do you have?’” “Oh, what ...

“They abandon sick little girls with me. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, recently even smallpox. They think we are not immune, that the epidemic will annihilate or at least decimate us. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilon cares for its children.”

Eithné took the goblet from Braenn’s trembling hands and raised it up. “Can you read Old Runes, White Wolf?” “Yes, I can.” “Read what is engraved on the goblet. It is from Craag An. It was drunk from by kings whom no one now remembers.” “Duettaeánn aef cirrán Cáerme Gláeddyv. Yn á esseáth.” “Do you know what that means?” “The Sword of Destiny has two blades… You are one of them.” “Stand up, Child of the Elder Blood.” The dryad’s voice clanged like steel in an order which could not be defied, a will which had to be yielded to. “Drink. It is the Water of Brokilon.”

“O Child of the Elder Blood,” she said. “Choose. Do you wish to remain in Brokilon, or do you follow your destiny?” The Witcher shook his head in disbelief. Ciri was flushed and breathing a little more quickly. And nothing else. Nothing. “I wish to follow my destiny,” she said brightly, looking the dryad in the eyes. “Then let it be,” Eithné said, coldly and tersely. Braenn sighed aloud. “I wish to be alone,” Eithné said, turning her back on them. “Please leave.” Braenn took hold of Ciri and touched Geralt’s arm, but the Witcher pushed her arm away. “Thank you, Eithné,” he said. The dryad slowly turned to face him. “What are you thanking me for?” “For destiny,” he smiled. “For your decision. For that was not the Water of Brokilon, was it? It was Ciri’s destiny to return home. But you, Eithné, played the role of destiny. And for that I thank you.” “How little you know of destiny,” the dryad said bitterly. “How little you know, Witcher. How little you see. How little you understand. You thank me? You thank me for the role I have played? For a vulgar spectacle? For a trick, a deception, a hoax? For the sword of destiny being made, as you judge, of wood dipped in gold paint? Then go further; do not thank, but expose me. Have it your own way. Prove that the arguments are in your favour. Fling your truth in my face, show me the triumph of sober, human truth, thanks to which, in your opinion, you gain mastery of the world. This is the Water of Brokilon. A little still remains. Da...