Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“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...