Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“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.