Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“Prices are going up, and one has to live,

“That which represents Chaos is menace, is the aggressive side. While Order is the side being threatened, in need of protection. In need of a defender.

I think that every myth, every fable, must have some roots. Something lies among those roots.”

Only myths and fables do not know the limits of possibility.”

“He is…” the Zerrikanian, frowning, searched for the words. “He is… the most… beautiful.” The Witcher nodded. Not for the first time, the criteria by which women judged the attractiveness of men remained a mystery to him.

“You’ll be singing a different tune,” the sorceress put her hands on her hips, “when the dragon lacerates and perforates you and shatters your shinbones. You’ll be licking my shoes and begging for help. As usual. How well, oh, how very well do I know your sort. I know you so well it makes me sick.”

“Men like to meet their former lovers, like to relive memories. They like to imagine that erstwhile erotic ecstasies give them some kind of perpetual ownership of their partner. It enhances their self-importance. You are no exception. In spite of everything.”

“I shall tell you. I’ve heard that it has recently become tiresome to negotiate with you witchers. The thing is that, whenever a witcher is shown a monster to be killed, the witcher, rather than take his sword and slaughter it, begins to ponder whether it is right, whether it is transgressing the limits of what is possible, whether it is not contrary to the code and whether the monster really is a monster, as though it wasn’t clear at first glance. It seems to me that you are simply doing too well. In my day, witchers didn’t have two pennies to rub together, just two stinking boots. They didn’t question, they slaughtered what they were ordered to, whether it was a werewolf, a dragon or a tax collector. All that counted was a clean cut. So, Geralt?”

“Competition, isn’t it? The two of you have similar occupations. Except that Eyck is an idealist, and you are a professional. A minor difference, particularly for the ones you kill.”

“To me, Witcher, calling killing a vocation is loathsome, low and nonsensical. Our world is in equilibrium. The annihilation, the killing, of any creatures that inhabit this world upsets that equilibrium. And a lack of equilibrium brings closer extinction; extinction and the end of the world as we know it.”

“The world, I repeat,” Dorregaray glanced at him indifferently, “is in equilibrium. Natural equilibrium. Every species has its own natural enemies, every one is the natural enemy of other species. That also includes humans. The extermination of the natural enemies of humans, which you dedicate yourself to, and which one can begin to observe, threatens the degeneration of the race.”

“You can apply your theory to all sorts of creatures and vermin, Dorregaray. But not to dragons. For dragons are the natural, greatest enemies of man. And I do not refer to the degeneration of the human race, but to its survival. In order to survive, one has to crush one’s enemies, enemies which might prevent that survival.” “Dragons aren’t man’s enemies,” Geralt broke in.

“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.”

“Do you know what, Yennefer, I wouldn’t like to see the day your idea of the dominance of man comes about, when people like you will occupy their due place in nature. Fortunately, it will never come to that. You would rather poison or slaughter each other, expire from typhoid fever and typhus, because it is filth and lice—and not dragons—which threaten your splendid cities, where women are delivered of children once a year, but where only one new-born baby in ten lives longer than ten days. Yes, Yennefer, fecundity, fecundity and once again fecundity. So take up bearing children, my dear; it’s the most natural pursuit for you. It will occupy the time you are currently fruitlessly wasting on dreaming up nonsense. Farewell.”

“I thank you, sir knight,” Yennefer said dryly, “and the Witcher Geralt also thanks you. Thank him, Geralt.” “I’d rather drop dead,” the Witcher sighed, disarmingly frank.

“And what’s your opinion about all this, Dandelion? What do you think?” “What does it matter what I think? I’m a poet, Geralt. Does my opinion matter at all?” “Yes it does.”

“O, ye Gods,” Dandelion wailed in admiration. “What a ballad this will be, Yennefer!”

“Chaos and Order,” Villentretenmerth smiled. “Do you remember, Geralt? Chaos is aggression, Order is protection against it. It’s worth rushing to the ends of the world, to oppose aggression and evil, isn’t it, Witcher? Particularly, as you said, when the pay is fair.

“Well, it’s the times we live in. For some time, creatures, which you usually call monsters, have been feeling more and more under threat from people. They can no longer cope by themselves. They need a Defender. Some kind of… witcher.”

“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.”

“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.”

A star fell, a brief flash of lightning illuminating the black firmament, flecked with unmoving dots of light. The Witcher made no wish.

“Yes,” the sorceress put aside the vials and jars, “witchers can be kept busy in towns, too. I think one day you’ll settle in a city for good, Geralt.” I’d rather drop dead, he thought. But he did not say it aloud.

“Witcher,” she whispered, kissing his cheek, “there’s no romance in you. And I… I like elven legends, they are so captivating. What a pity humans don’t have any legends like that. Perhaps one day they will? Perhaps they’ll create some? But what would human legends deal with? All around, wherever one looks, there’s greyness and dullness. Even things which begin beautifully lead swiftly to boredom and dreariness, to that human ritual, that wearisome rhythm called life. Oh, Geralt, it’s not easy being a sorceress, but comparing it to mundane, human existence… Geralt?” She laid her head on his chest, which was rising and falling with slow breathing. “Sleep,” she whispered. “Sleep, Witcher.”

She also possessed a very expertly stuffed unicorn, on whose back she liked to make love. Geralt was of the opinion that if there existed a place less suitable for having sex it was probably only the back of a live unicorn.

What disgusts one person, somehow doesn’t bother another. And what, Geralt, repels you? I wonder what might disgust someone, who, as I’ve heard, is capable of standing up to his neck in dung and filth? Please do not treat that question as insulting or provocative. I am genuinely fascinated to learn what might trigger a feeling of repugnance in a witcher.” “Does this jar, by any chance, contain the menstrual blood of an undefiled virgin, Istredd? Well it disgusts me when I picture you, a serious sorcerer, with a phial in your hand, trying to obtain that precious liquid, drop by drop, kneeling, so to speak, at the very source.”

“Indeed,” Geralt smiled affectedly, “your blunt sincerity astonishes me more and more. I might have expected anything, but not such a request. Don’t you think that instead of asking me, you ought rather to leap out and blast me with ball lightning? You’d be rid of the obstacle and there’d just be a little soot to scrape off the wall. An easier—and more reliable—method. Because, you see, a request can be declined, but ball lightning can’t be.”

I was deprived of the ability to feel so I wouldn’t be able to feel how dreadfully vile is that vileness, so I wouldn’t retreat from it, wouldn’t run horror-stricken from it. Yes, I was stripped of feelings. But not utterly. Whoever did it made a botch of it, Yen.”

“My answer would just be a word. A word which doesn’t express a feeling, doesn’t express an emotion, because I’m bereft of them. A word which would be nothing but the sound made when you strike a cold, empty skull.”

He watched in fascination. Creational magic—considered the most elevated accomplishment among sorcerers—always fascinated him, much more than illusions or transformational magic. Yes, Istredd was right, he thought. In comparison with this kind of magic my Signs just look ridiculous.

To what an error the vanity of the Ice Queen, convinced of her omnipotence, has brought me. For there are some… things… which there is no way of obtaining, even by magic. And there are gifts which may not be accepted, if one is unable to… reciprocate them… with something equally precious. Otherwise such a gift will slip through the fingers, melt like a shard of ice gripped in the hand. Then only regret, the sense of loss and hurt will remain…”

“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?”

“No,” she repeated. “I cannot, Geralt. I cannot tell you that. That bird, begotten from the touch of your hand, will tell you. Bird? What is the essence of truth?” “Truth,” the kestrel said, “is a shard of ice.”

The air bears autumn’s cool scent Our words seized by an icy gust Your tears have my heart rent But all is gone and part we must.

Around your house, now white from frost Sparkles ice on the pond and marsh Your longing eyes grieve what is lost But naught can change this parting harsh…

“No,” Geralt rebutted. “It’s not an exaggeration. Believe it or not, but at this moment it is you, Dainty. In some unknown way the doppler also precisely copies its victim’s mentality.” “Mental what?” “The mind’s properties, the character, feelings, thoughts. The soul. Which would confirm what most sorcerers and all priests would deny. That the soul is also matter.”

“There is absolutely nothing to be concerned about,” Chappelle repeated. “You may leave Novigrad without let or hindrance. I will not detain you. I do have to insist, gentlemen, however, that you do not broadcast the lamentable fabrications of the innkeeper, that you do not discuss this incident openly. Statements calling into question the divine power of the Eternal Fire, irrespective of the intention, we, the humble servants of the temple, would have to treat as heresy, with all due consequences. Your personal religious convictions, whatever they might be, and however I respect them, are of no significance. Believe in what you will. I am tolerant while somebody venerates the Eternal Fire and does not blaspheme against it. But should they blaspheme, I shall order them burnt at the stake, and that is that. Everybody in Novigrad is equal before the law. And the law applies equally to everybody; anyone who blasphemes against the Eternal Fire perishes at the stake, and their property is confiscated. But enough of that. I repeat; you may pass through the gates of Novigrad without hindrance. Ideally…”

ideally,” Chappelle finished, “ideally with immediate effect. Forthwith. Obviously, with regard to the honourable merchant Biberveldt, that ‘forthwith’ means ‘forthwith, having settled all fiscal affairs.’ Thank you for the time you have given me.”

“Then may that hope burn in us, Geralt of Rivia. Do you know what the Eternal Fire is? A flame that never goes out, a symbol of permanence, a way leading through the gloom, a harbinger of progress, of a better tomorrow. The Eternal Fire, Geralt, is hope. For everybody, everybody without exception. For if something exists that embraces us all… you, me… others… then that something is precisely hope. Remember that. It was a pleasure to meet you, Witcher.”

“Ashamed?” the bard said, astonished. “What matters is what and how one sings, and not where.

“You would do better not to attract attention, O poet. Your fiancée is here. There could be trouble.” “Fiancée?” Dandelion blinked nervously. “Which one do you mean? I have several.”

What a hideous smile I have, Geralt thought, reaching for his sword. What a hideous face I have. And how hideously I squint. So is that what I look like? Damn.

“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.”

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.”

Because I prefer being a beggar in Novigrad to being a doppler in the wilds.

Novigrad owes me something, Geralt. The building of a city here tainted a land we could have lived in; lived in in our natural form. We have been exterminated, hunted down like rabid dogs. I’m one of the few to survive. I want to survive and I will survive.

“Yes, as I said,” Tellico continued calmly. “I’m going. And you, Geralt, will not even try to stop me. Because I, Geralt, knew your thoughts for a moment. Including the ones you don’t want to admit to, the ones you even hide from yourself. Because to stop me you’d have to kill me. And the thought of killing me in cold blood fills you with disgust. Doesn’t it?”

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.

“Ballads aren’t written to be believed. They are written to move their audience. But why am I talking to you about this, when you know bugger all about it?

“Well, everybody has some personal problems. However, not everybody likes them to be sung about from the rooftops.”