The Tower of Swallows (The Witcher, #4)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

The violent storm which rocked the Islands on the night of the Autumn Equinox was regarded by the superstitious as a wave pushed by the prow of the fearsome Naglfar of Morhögg, a longship with sides built of dead men’s fingernails and toenails, bearing an army of spectres and demons of Chaos.

Quiet, quiet, children. They are not demons, not devils… Worse than that. They are people.

How many evenings have we had together? At least ten. I’m afraid that the whole story might take a thousand and one nights.” “We have time, Ciri. We have time.”

“I love you, Waxwing.” “I love you, Little Falcon. Now go.”

Attempts were made to charge me—an innocent person, as honest as the day is long—with the crime of espionage.

Brooding achieves nothing, save distress, which clearly does you no good.

were two perfectly preserved human skeletons: those of a woman and a man. Beside the skeletons—apart from weapons and countless small artefacts—was a tube made of hardened leather and measuring two and a half feet long. A coat of arms with faded colours depicting lions and lozenges was embossed on the leather. Professor Schliemann, a distinguished specialist in the sigillography of the Dark Ages, who was leading the team, identified the coat of arms as the emblem of Rivia, an ancient kingdom of unconfirmed location.

Kamil Ronstetter kicked the rest of the papers into the campfire—after all, children might chance upon that foul stuff. Then the three hurried away from that dangerous place. The priceless writing from the Dark Ages burned with a tall, bright flame. For a few short moments the centuries spoke with the soft whisper of paper blackening in the fire. And then the flame went out and darkness covered the earth.

He did no more than what a normal fellow does to his wife on returning home from the tavern on Saturday evening—just gave her a kicking, slapped her a few times, and nothing more.

Ope

A tower being struck by lightning—a symbol of chaos and destruction, for the Old Races… And above the tower—” “A swallow,” Ciri completed. “Zireael. My name.”

The line delineated by destiny is winding, but leads to this tower. Towards annihilation, towards the destruction of established values, of the established order. But there, above the tower, do you see? A swallow. The symbol of hope.

The result of the war is a foregone conclusion. Wars are won with money.

“You whoresons!” Quite unexpectedly, the pastel mayor suddenly roared in a powerful voice utterly incongruent with his build. “Perhaps ten of you want to take on the one of her? On horseback, perhaps? Riding chariots, perhaps? Perhaps you want to borrow a catapult from the armoury in order to hurl boulders at the wench from afar? Eh?”

amongst hostile people; strangers. “And all that’s left to us is vengeance. A cruel and bloody revenge, about which stories will still be told a hundred years hence. Stories which folk will be afraid to listen to after nightfall. And the hand of any who would repeat such a crime will tremble at the thought of our vengeance. We shall give a horrible example of terror! Using the ways of Mr. Fulko Artevelde, wise Mr. Fulko, who knows how blackguards and scoundrels should be treated. The illustration of terror we shall give will astonish even him! “So let us begin and may Hell assist us!

He was complaining of a headache—a fairly normal symptom for someone whose scalp has been torn from their head by an axe.

“Until then,” he asked coolly, “may we be comrades?” “We may, Cahir. I apologise again for back there. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never seriously suspected you of treachery or duplicity.” “I’m not a traitor. I’ll never betray you, Witcher.”

I am Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha. For convenience I use the alias Avallac’h, and you may also address me as such.”

Ithlinne is more explicit: only those who follow the Swallow will survive. The Swallow, the symbol of spring, is the saviour, the one who will open the Forbidden Door, signal the way of salvation. And make possible the world’s rebirth. The Swallow, the Child of the Elder Blood.”

And meanwhile Lara’s genetic material… exists, as you’ve probably guessed. And has even developed. Unfortunately, it mutated. Yes, yes. Your Ciri is a mutant.”

The sorcerers who experimented with Lara and Riannon’s progeny, running a veritable breeding farm, didn’t get the expected results, so they became bored and abandoned the experiment. But the experiment continued; just spontaneously. Ciri, the daughter of Pavetta, the granddaughter of Calanthe, the great-great-granddaughter of Riannon, was Lara Dorren’s true descendant.

“I—you see—am errant. But not, ’pon my word, erratic! Oh, it’s my horse. Come here, Bucephalus!”

A third shot at him with a Gabriel. A certain Gabriel, a craftsman from Verden, had invented and patented a miniature crossbow. He advertised them with the slogan “Defend yourself.” His handbill declared “Banditry and violence are rampant among us. The law is powerless and inept. Defend yourself! Don’t leave home without a handy Gabriel crossbow. A Gabriel is your guardian, a Gabriel will protect you and your dear ones from bandits.” Sales were phenomenal. Soon every bandit packed a Gabriel during robberies.

Geralt parried obliquely and deflected. The bandit spun nimbly, moving from his stance to a nasty cut from below, when he suddenly goggled, sneezed loudly and covered himself in snot, dropping his guard for a moment. The Witcher jabbed him fast in the neck and the blade went in as far as the vertebrae. “Well, who’ll tell me now,” he panted, looking at the twitching corpse, “that taking drugs isn’t bad for your health?”

“’Pon my word!” the baron suddenly laughed. “No disgrace nor dishonour will befall Viscount Julian, I’m prepared to give my word on it! For I omitted to tell you, viscount, that Duke Raymund died of apoplexy two years past.” “Ha, ha!” Dandelion shouted, beaming all over. “The duke kicked the bucket! These truly are marvellous and joyous tidings! I mean, I meant to say, sorrow and grief, a great loss… May the earth lie lightly on him… If that is the case, let’s ride with all haste to Beauclair, noble knights!

“I’m no longer a witcher. I’ve stopped being a witcher. I’ve learned that now. On Thanedd, in the Tower of the Seagull. In Brokilon. On the bridge on the Yaruga. In the cave beneath Gorgon. And here, in Myrkvid Forest. No, I’m not a witcher now. So I’ll have to learn to manage without my medallion.”

“In Talgar—” now he showed off his wit “—the winter begins in September, and ends in May. The remaining seasons are spring and autumn. There’s also the summer… it usually falls on the first Tuesday after the August new moon. And lasts until Wednesday morning.”

And outside the doors of the chamber to which the major-domo was leading him stood guardsmen with halberds, so erect it seemed spare halberds had been stuck up their backsides.

Queen Zuleyka was short, quite stout and pleasantly plain. She dressed in quite a typical way for women of her looks, which was based on selecting elements of attire so that no one would guess she wasn’t her own grandmother.

For most often it is so, that our neighbour does not desire a gift, but to be given.”’”

And you, Crach an Craite, Yarl of Skellige, will help me in my undertaking. Because you took a similar vow. Ten years ago. Right here on the wharf, where we stand. To the same person. To Ciri, the granddaughter of Calanthe. The lion cub of Cintra. I, Yennefer of Vengerberg, regard Ciri as my daughter. Which is why I demand on her behalf that you keep your vow. Keep it, Crach an Craite, Yarl of Skellige.”

Hemdall will face the evil powers from the land of Morhögg: the phantoms, demons and spectres of Chaos. He will stand on the Rainbow Bridge and blow his horn to signal that it is time to take up arms and fall in to battle array. For Ragh nar Roog, the Last Battle, which will decide if night is to fall, or dawn to break.”

“Sigrdrifa,” she said with anger, “don’t try your sublime tricks on me. I’m ninety-four years old. But treat that, please, as a confessional secret. I’m only confiding in you so you’ll understand I can’t be treated like a child.”

Take this hunchbacked monstrosity from me! I don’t want to look at it! She’s your daughter as much as she is mine.

“Pavetta,” Crach interrupted, still deep in thought, “did not perish during a storm. The storm began after her death. The sea reacted as it always does to the death of one of the Cintran bloodline.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I kept asking myself the question: what happened to those four lost days?” “So? What do you think happened to them?” “I don’t know.” “That’s marvellous.”

That man hanging from a tree?” “This?” Vysogota examined the loose leaf. “A scene from the legend of Hemdall. The hero Hemdall hung from the Ash of the Worlds for nine days and nights to gain knowledge and power through sacrifice and pain.”

it seemed to be a tower woven from mist, having fog as its fundamentum, and its top was crowned with the gleam of the aurora, an enchanted aurora borealis.

“Did you hear, Triss?” “Forgive me,” Triss Merigold said hollowly. “Forgive me, Yennefer.” “Oh, no, Triss. Never.”

“She’s perished,” Asa muttered, “in the Sedna Abyss. In the same place as Pavetta and Duny did back then… It was an accident…” “It was no accident,” Crach an Craite said with conviction. “It was certainly no accident then. And nor was it now.”

“The Tower of the Swallow is a legend. Remember, it’s just a legend.” “I’m just a legend,” she said bitterly. “Have been since my birth. Zireael, the Swallow, the Unexpected Child. The Chosen One. The Child of Destiny. The Child of the Elder Blood. I’m going, Vysogota. Farewell.” “Farewell, Ciri.”

“I am not Falka,” said the girl. The beggar saw again her fast, blurred movement, saw something shine fierily in the light of the cressets. “I’m Ciri of Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher! I’ve come here to kill you.”

“You ride a black mare…” he mumbled. “On a night as black as a pall… You sweep away the tracks behind you…” The girl turned around and looked at him. She had already wrapped the shawl around her face and the black-ringed spectral eyes looked out from over it. “Whoever meets you,” the beggar mumbled, “will not avoid death… For you yourself are death.” The girl looked long at him. Long. And rather dispassionately. “You’re right,” she said finally.

“Rience,” said Ciri, still smiling. “You were going to teach me pain, weren’t you? Do you remember? With those hands. With those fingers. Those ones? Those, the ones you’re holding the ice with?”

Rience screamed. And choked on the viscous, leaden water. And vanished. There was blood on the ice, on the perfectly even tracks left by the skates. And fingers. Eight fingers.

The Elder Blood that flows in your veins gives you power over time. And over space. Over the dimensions and the spheres. You are now Master of the Worlds, Ciri. You have a mighty Power. Do not let criminals or rogues take it from you and use it to their own ends…