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“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.
Only in fables survives what cannot survive in nature. Only myths and fables do not know the limits of possibility.”
Not for the first time, the criteria by which women judged the attractiveness of men remained a mystery to him.
“Those four years left their mark, Geralt. I’m over it now, which is the only reason why I didn’t spit in your eyes during
“Like a programmed, servile golem?
Fecundity, Dorregaray, is growth, is the condition
“Precisely,” Yennefer came closer. “None. Principles may be broken, fear can be overcome. Kill that dragon, Geralt. For me.” “For you?” “For me. I want that dragon, Geralt. In one piece. I want to have him all for myself.” “So cast a spell and kill it.” “No. You kill it. And I’ll
use my spells to hold back the Reavers and the others so they don’t interfere.” “You’ll kill them, Yennefer.” “Since when has that ever bothered you? You take care of the dragon, I’ll deal with the people.”
“The throne of Malleore is mine anyway, because in Caingorn I have three hundred armoured troops and fifteen hundred foot soldiers against their thousand crappy spearmen. Do they acknowledge me? They will have to. I’ll keep hanging, beheading and dismembering until they do.
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.
zeugl,
who had lived with Yennefer in Vengerberg for six months,
Her eyebrows, wonderfully irregular, when she washed off the kohl that outlined them during the day.
“Take your hideous face away, Herbolth,” Geralt said. “And stick your hundred marks up your arse. Go away, because the sight of you makes me sick. A little longer and I’ll cover you in puke from your cap to your toes.”
It astonishes me that you’re sitting there so calmly, Witcher, sir. What’s your trade, if you’ll pardon me? It’s your job to kill monsters, isn’t it?” “Monsters,” Geralt said coldly, “but not the members of intelligent races.”
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.
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 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!”
“I don’t accept stupid excuses! I… I like him too and want to have his fry, but how can I, if he doesn’t want to be a spawner? Where should I deposit my eggs, hey? In his cap?
“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!”
“Never fear. I already have the first stanzas. In my ballad the mermaid will sacrifice herself for the duke, she’ll exchange her fishtail for slender legs, but will pay for it by losing her voice. The duke will betray her, abandon her, and then she’ll perish from grief, and turn into foam, when the first rays of sunshine…”
“Indeed. Because I love you too, you loon. And what kind of love would it be if the one who loves were not capable of a little sacrifice?”
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
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‘You will give me what you do not expect to find at home.’ ‘You will give me what you already have, but about which you do not know.’
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.”
“Do you believe a Child of Destiny would pass through the Trials without danger?” “We believe such a child would not require the Trials.”
A choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman.
Her hair was red, flame-red, and when lit by the glow of the bonfire seemed as red as vermilion.
We used to call that hill Kite Top, but now everybody calls it the Sorcerers’ Peak or the Mountain of the Fourteen. For twenty-two of them stood on that hill, twenty-two sorcerers fought, and fourteen fell. It was a dreadful battle, sir. The earth reared up, fire poured from the sky like rain and lightning bolts raged… Many perished. But the sorcerers overcame the Black Forces, and broke the Power which was leading them. And fourteen of them perished in that battle. Fourteen laid down their lives… What, sir? What’s the matter?”
Don’t you believe me? Listen: Axel Raby, Triss Merigold, Atlan Kerk, Vanielle of Brugge, Dagobert of Vole—”
The chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling for no reason, looking like a teenager. He had liked her. And she had liked him.
“Doubts. Only evil, sir, never has any. But no one can escape his destiny.”
“All of my horses are called Roach. You know that perfectly well;
