The Time of Contempt (The Witcher, #2)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

“Damn and blast!” roared Codringher. “You didn’t even flinch, you whoreson!” Geralt turned back and smiled. Quite hideously. “Why should I have flinched? I could hear you aiming to miss.”

He will, thought Ciri suddenly, feeling dizzy. He’ll sail on great white sailing ships… He’ll sail to countries no one has seen before him… Fabio Sachs, explorer. He’ll give his name to a cape, to the very furthest point of an as-yet unnamed continent. When he’s fifty-four, married with a son and three daughters, he’ll die far from his home and his loved ones… of an as-yet unnamed disease…

Tor Lara… The Tower of Gulls… Why does its name fill me with such dread?

The vague, ghastly shapes of riders become visible in the ribbon sliding across the sky. As they come closer and closer, they can be seen ever more clearly. Buffalo horns and ragged crests sway on their helmets, and cadaverous masks show white beneath them. The riders sit on horses’ skeletons, cloaked in ragged caparisons. A fierce gale howls among the willows, blades of lightning slash the black sky. The wind moans louder and louder. No, it’s not the wind. It’s ghostly singing. The ghastly cavalcade turns and hurtles straight at her. The hooves of the spectral horses stir up the glow of the will o’ the wisps suspended above the swamps. At the head of the cavalcade gallops the King of the Wild Hunt. A rusty helmet sways above his skull-like face, its gaping eye sockets burning with a livid flame. A ragged cloak flutters. A necklace, as empty as an old peapod, rattles against the rusty cuirass, a necklace which, it is said, once contained precious stones, which fell out during the frenzied chase across the heavens. And became stars…

Yes, we are corpses. But you are death.

“That’s the role of poetry, Ciri. To say what others cannot utter.” “It’s a stupid role. And you’re making everything up!” “That is also the role of poetry. Hey, I hear some raised voices coming from the pond. Have a quick look, and see what’s happening there.” “Geralt,” said Ciri, putting her eye once more to the hole in the wall, “is standing with his head bowed. And Yennefer’s yelling at him. She’s screaming and waving her arms. Oh dear… What can it mean?” “It’s childishly simple.” Dandelion stared at the clouds scudding across the sky. “Now she’s saying sorry to him.”

We know little about love. Love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

Geralt, refraining from telling Dijkstra his respect came from the heart of his bottom, shook the proffered hand—or rather tried to.

After she had gone the Witcher abandoned convention, unfastened his doublet, drank both goblets of wine and tried to get down to some serious eating. Nothing came of it.

“Doesn’t the total absence of crowned heads—which is blatantly apparent at this gathering—surprise you?” “It doesn’t surprise me in the least,” said Geralt, finally managing to stab a marinated olive with a toothpick.

“Nature doesn’t know the concept of philosophy, Geralt of Rivia. The pathetic—ridiculous—attempts which people undertake to try to understand nature are typically termed philosophy. The results of such attempts are also considered philosophy. It’s as though a cabbage tried to investigate the causes and effects of its existence, called the result of these reflections ‘an eternal and mysterious conflict between head and root,’ and considered rain an unfathomable causative power. We, sorcerers, don’t waste time puzzling out what nature is. We know what it is; for we are nature ourselves. Do you understand?” “I’m trying to, but please talk more slowly. Don’t forget you’re talking to a cabbage.”

“Perhaps,” smiled the sorcerer faintly. “I’m dreaming of a painting in the Gallery of Glory. The two of us seated at a table and on a brass plaque the title: Vilgefortz of Roggeveen Entering Into a Pact with Geralt of Rivia.” “That would be an allegory,” said the Witcher, “with the title: Knowledge Triumphing over Ignorance. I’d prefer a more realistic painting, entitled: In Which Vilgefortz Explains to Geralt What This Is All About.”

You say I’ll have to choose? I say you’re wrong. I won’t choose. I’ll respond to events. I’ll adapt to what others choose. That’s what I’ve always done.”

“I love you, my daughter,” she said indistinctly. “Run.”

“Don’t kill me…” “Give me one reason. Just one. Make haste.” “It was I…” whispered Cahir. “It was I who got her out of Cintra. From the fire… I rescued her. I saved her life…” When he opened his eyes, the fiend was no longer there. Cahir was alone in the courtyard with the bodies of the elves. The water in the fountain soughed, spilling over the edge of the basin, washing away the blood on the ground. Cahir fainted.

“I can’t leave—I can’t just leave her to her fate. She’s completely alone… She cannot be left alone, Dandelion. You’ll never understand that. No one will ever understand that, but I know. If she remains alone, the same thing will happen to her as once happened to me… You’ll never understand that…”

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Queen of Cintra, the Princess of Brugge and Duchess of Sodden, heiress of Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, and suzerain of Attre and Abb Yarra!”

Those traitors probably told themselves that I would not recognise her. But I will know the real Ciri. I would know her at the end of the world and in the darkness of hell.”

“An avenger will be born of my blood,” she cried. “From my tainted Elder Blood will be born the avenger of the nations and of the world! He will avenge my torment! Death, death and vengeance to all of you and your kin!”