Sword of Destiny (The Witcher, #0.7)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

I told you, a hungry witcher is a good witcher.

“What do you connect with the sea, Geralt?” she asked suddenly. “Unease,” he answered, almost without thinking. “Interesting. And you seem so calm and composed.” “I didn’t say I feel unease. You asked for associations.” “Associations are the image of the soul. I know what I’m talking about, I’m a poet.” “And what do you associate with the sea, Essi?” he asked quickly, to put an end to discussions about the unease he was feeling. “With constant movement,” she answered after a pause. “With change. And with riddles, with mystery, with something I cannot grasp, which I might be able to describe in a thousand different ways, in a thousand poems, never actually reaching the core, the heart of the matter. Yes, that’s it.” “And so,” he said, feeling the verbena affecting him more and more strongly. “What you feel is also unease. And you seem so calm and composed.”

“For me,” Dandelion fantasised, “a palliasse without a girl isn’t a palliasse. It’s incomplete happiness, and what is incomplete happiness?”

“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—”

Now they are afraid, but hunger will overcome their fear.

“You don’t believe or you don’t want to believe?” He did not reply. “And you want to appear the cold professional?” she asked with a strange smile. “Someone who thinks with his sword hilt? If you want, I’ll tell you what you really are.” “I know what I really am.” “You’re sensitive,” she said softly. “Deep in your angst-filled soul. Your stony face and cold voice don’t deceive me. You are sensitive, and your sensitivity makes you fear that whatever you are going to face with sword in hand may have its own arguments, may have the moral advantage over you…” “No, Essi,” he said slowly. “Don’t try to make me the subject of a moving ballad, a ballad about a witcher with inner conflicts. Perhaps I’d like it to be the case, but it isn’t. My moral dilemmas are resolved for me by my code and education. By my training.” “Don’t talk like that,” she said in annoyance. “I don’t understand why you try to—” “Essi,” he interrupted her again. “I don’t want you to pick up false notions about me. I’m not a knight errant.” “You aren’t a cold and unthinking killer either.” “No,” he agreed calmly. “I’m not, although there are some who think differently. For it isn’t my sensitivity and personal qualities that place me higher, but the vain and arrogant pride of a professional convinced of his value. A specialist, in whom it was instilled that the code of his profession and cold routine is more legitimate than emotion, that they protect him against making a mistake, which could be made should he b...

I don’t feel anything, he noticed with horror, nothing, not the smallest emotion. That fact that I will embrace her is a deliberate, measured response, not a spontaneous one. I’ll hug her, for I feel as though I ought to, not because I want to. I feel nothing.

A little sacrifice, he thought, just a little sacrifice. For this will calm her, a hug, a kiss, calm caresses. She doesn’t want anything more. And even if she did, what of it? For a little sacrifice, a very little sacrifice, is beautiful and worth… Were she to want more… It would calm her. A quiet, calm, gentle act of love. And I… Why, it doesn’t matter, because Essi smells of verbena, not lilac and gooseberry, doesn’t have cool, electrifying skin. Essi’s hair is not a black tornado of gleaming curls, Essi’s eyes are gorgeous, soft, warm and cornflower blue; they don’t blaze with a cold, unemotional, deep violet. Essi will fall asleep afterwards, turn her head away, open her mouth slightly, Essi will not smile in triumph. For Essi… Essi is not Yennefer. And that is why I cannot. I cannot find that little sacrifice inside myself.

“No thank you, I decline,” the Witcher grimaced. “A job like that doesn’t suit me. I consider waging war against other races idiocy. Perhaps it’s excellent sport for bored and jaded dukes. But not for me.”

And what kind of love would it be if the one who loves were not capable of a little sacrifice?”

The situation was saved by the sudden appearance of Dandelion, dependable Dandelion. Dandelion with his dependable tact.

have no wish to watch what is going on between you any longer! What do you expect from him, Poppet? The impossible? And you, Geralt, what are you hoping for? That Little Eye will read your thoughts like… like the other one? And she will settle for that, and you will conveniently stay quiet, not having to explain, declare or deny anything? And not have to reveal yourself? How much time, how many facts do you both need, to understand? And when you’ll want to recall it in a few years, in your memories? I mean we have to part tomorrow, dammit!

It was a ceremonial supper. For they were going to part in the morning. In the morning each of them was going to go their own way; in search of something they already had. But they did not know they had it, they could not even imagine it. They could not imagine where the roads they were meant to set off on the next morning would lead. Each of them travelling separately.

Dandelion knew that few would believe the story told by the ballad, but he was not concerned. He knew ballads were not written to be believed, but to move their audience.

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.

“We’re going. If you want to stay alone in the forest, that’s your choice. But the next time a yghern attacks you, don’t yell. It doesn’t befit a princess. A princess dies without even a squeal, having first wiped her snotty nose. Let’s go, Braenn. Farewell, Your Highness.”

“You sound like all the rest. You think that just because I’m small you can lie to me.”

“I’m not going to be a princess,” she muttered. “Very well, very well. You won’t be a princess. You’ll become a hamster and live in a burrow.”

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.

“That was a good one,” the dryad yawned. “So it has what it ought to have. You, moppet, should have scurried up a tree from that yghern, like that canny tomcat. Not pondered, but scurried up the tree without a thought. And that is all the wisdom in it. To survive. Not to be caught.”

You, the Elder Folk, like to say that hatred is alien to you, that it is a feeling known only to humans. But it is not true. You know what hatred is and are capable of hating, you merely evince it a little differently, more wisely and less savagely. But because of that it may be more cruel. I accept your hatred, Eithné, on behalf of all humankind. I deserve it.

“It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. How easy it is to release the bowstring and think, it is not I, not I, it is the arrow. The blood of that boy is not on my hands. The arrow killed him, not I. But the arrow does not dream anything in the night. May you dream nothing in the night either, blue-eyed dryad. Farewell, Braenn.”

“The Sword of Destiny has two blades… You are one of them.”

“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. Dare you? O conqueror of the world?”

“The nothingness and void in you, conqueror of the world, who is unable even to win the woman he loves. Who walks away and flees, when his destiny is within reach. The sword of destiny has two blades. You are one of them. But what is the other, White Wolf?”

“There is no destiny,” his own voice. “There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.”

“You sneer at destiny,” she says, still smiling. “You sneer at it, trifle with it. The sword of destiny has two blades. You are one of them. Is the second… death? But it is we who die, die because of you. Death cannot catch up with you, so it must settle for us. Death dogs your footsteps, White Wolf. But others die. Because of you.

Geralt had seen too many murderers not to recognise one more instantly.

“What does it matter what I call it?” The Witcher smiled wryly. “The essence is not in the name, Mousesack. Why ought I to ride to Cintra? I have already been to Cintra; I have already, as you described it, crossed paths. What of it?” “Geralt, you demanded a vow from Calanthe, then from Pavetta and her husband. The vow has been kept. Ciri is the Child of Destiny. Destiny demands…” “That I take the child and turn her into a witcher? A little girl? Take a good look at me, Mousesack. Can you imagine me as a comely lass?”

“And you’re still giving her up?” “Yes, I am. I’m surely permitted to, aren’t I?” “You are,” Mousesack said. “Indeed. But it is risky. There is an old prophecy saying that the sword of destiny…” “… has two blades,” Geralt completed the sentence. “I’ve heard it.”

“Me. Unlike you, I believe in destiny. And I knew that it is hazardous to trifle with a two-edged sword. Don’t trifle with it, Geralt. Take advantage of the chance which is presenting itself. Turn what connects you to Ciri into the normal, healthy bond of a child with its guardian. For if you do not… Then that bond may manifest itself differently. More terribly. In a negative and destructive way. I want to protect you both from that. If you wanted to take her, I would not protest. I would take upon myself the risk of explaining why to Calanthe.”

“Enough,” Geralt got up, “because I’m liable to get emotional. Farewell, bearded one. My compliments to Calanthe. And think something up… For Ciri’s sake.”

“You will not escape, Geralt.” “From destiny?” The Witcher tightened the girth of the captured horse. “No,” the druid said, looking at the sleeping child. “From her.”

“Don’t goooo!” I have to, he thought. I have to, Ciri. Because… I always do.

“You won’t get away!” she cried. “Don’t go thinking that! You can’t run away! I’m your destiny, do you hear?”

There is no destiny, he thought. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death. Death is the other blade of the two-edged sword. I am the first blade. And the second is death, which dogs my footsteps. I ca...

“Beltane!” she suddenly snapped, and he felt the arm she was pressing against his chest stiffen and tauten. “They’re enjoying themselves. They’re celebrating the eternal cycle of nature regenerating itself. And us? What are we doing here? We, relicts, doomed to obliteration, to extinction and oblivion? Nature is born again, the cycle repeats itself. But not for us, Geralt. We cannot reproduce ourselves. We were deprived of that potential. We were given the ability to do extraordinary things with nature, occasionally literally against her. And at the same time what is most natural and simple in nature was taken from us. What if we live longer than them? After our winter will come the spring, and we shall not be reborn; what finishes will finish along with us. But both you and I are drawn to those bonfires, though our presence here is a wicked, blasphemous mockery of this world.”

“We’re made for each other,” she whispered. “Perhaps we’re destined for each other? But nothing will come of it. It’s a pity, but when dawn breaks, we shall part. It cannot be any other way. We have to part so as not to hurt one another. We two, destined for each other. Created for each other. Pity. The one or ones who created us for each other ought to have made more of an effort. Destiny alone is insufficient, it’s too little. Something more is needed. Forgive me. I had to tell you.”

I bandaged a wounded man, who’d fainted away, and put him on my cart and didn’t leave him to expire. It’s an ordinary matter, Witcher, sir.” “It’s not so ordinary, Yurga. I’ve been left… in similar situations… Like a dog…” The merchant, lowering his head, said nothing. “Well, what can I say, it’s a base world,” he finally muttered. “But that’s no reason for us all to become despicable. What we need is kindness. My father taught me that and I teach it to my sons.”

Destined for each other. Until the very end. How can one not believe in the power of destiny?”

“Calanthe—” “Don’t interrupt,” she said sharply. “I am telling a story, haven’t you noticed? Listen on.

“It’s not worth worrying about storytellers. If they don’t have enough material they’ll make things up anyway. And if they do have authentic material at their disposal, they’ll distort it. As you correctly observed, this isn’t a fairy tale, it’s life. Lousy and evil. And so, damn it all, let’s live it decently and well. Let’s keep the amount of harm done to others to the absolute minimum. In a fairy tale, I grant you, the queen has to beg the witcher and the witcher can demand what’s his and stamp his foot. In real life the queen can simply say: ‘Please don’t take the child.’ And the Witcher can reply: ‘Since you ask—I shall not.’ And go off into the setting sun. Such is life. But the storyteller wouldn’t get a penny from his listeners for an ending to a fairy tale like that. At most they’d get a kick up the arse. Because it’s dull.”

Logic is the mother of all knowledge. And what does she hint at?

“Don’t you believe in destiny?” “I don’t know if I believe in anything. And as regards… I fear it isn’t enough. Something more is necessary.”

It’s hard to call an accident destiny.”

“Do you believe a Child of Destiny would pass through the Trials without danger?” “We believe such a child would not require the Trials.”

Do only potential witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, selection also occurs in life, Geralt. Misfortune, sicknesses and wars also select. Defying destiny may be just as hazardous as succumbing to it.

“Do you hate that woman, Geralt?” “My mother? No, Calanthe. I presume she had a choice… Or perhaps she didn’t? No, but she did; a suitable spell or elixir would have been sufficient… A choice. A choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman. Emotions are unimportant here. She had the irrefutable right to her decision and she took it. But I think that an encounter with her, the face she would make then… Would give me something of a perverse pleasure, if you know what I mean.”

I don’t want to look destiny in the eyes, because I don’t believe in it. Because I know that in order to unite two people, destiny is insufficient. Something more is necessary than destiny. I sneer at such destiny; I won’t follow it like a blind man being led by the hand, uncomprehending and naive.