Sword of Destiny (The Witcher #2)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

People who don’t break off their conversations when I approach. People who, though they may not like me, say it to my face, and don’t throw stones from behind a fence. I’m riding with them for the same reason I rode with you to the log drivers’ inn. Because it’s all the same to me. I don’t have a goal to head towards. I don’t have a destination at the end of the road.”

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.”

“Forgive me my frankness and forthrightness, Yennefer. It is written all over your faces, I don’t even have to try to read your thoughts. You were made for each other, you and the Witcher. But nothing will come of it. Nothing. I’m sorry.”

Véa, already mounted beside Téa, waved. “Véa,” the Witcher said, “you were right.” “Hm?” “He is the most beautiful.”

Do you mark the honour I do you, swindler?” “I do,” said the innkeeper morosely, leaning forward over the bar. “I’m content to see you, minstrel, sir. I see that your word is indeed your bond. After all, you promised to stop by first thing to pay for yesterday’s exploits. And I—just imagine—presumed you were lying, as usual. I swear I am ashamed.” “There is no need to feel shame, my good man,” the troubadour said light-heartedly, “for I have no money.

Well? In what way is a she-elf better than me? Only that at the sight of the she-elf you pick up speed, and at the sight of me you want to puke? You know where you can stuff an argument like that.

Geralt groaned softly, as usual when Dandelion was assailed by nocturnal talkativeness.

“You don’t have to. I know you.” “You only think you know me. Don’t forget: I’m complicated by nature.” “Dandelion,” the Witcher sighed, now genuinely tired. “You’re a cynic, a lecher, a womaniser and a liar. And there’s nothing, believe me, nothing complicated about that. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Geralt.”

Geralt. Where has the water gone? What is it with those bloody tides? Where do they come from? Haven’t you ever thought about it?” “No. I’ve had other concerns.” “I think,” Dandelion said, trembling slightly, “that down there in the depths, at the very bottom of this bloody ocean, crouches a huge monster, a fat, scaly beast, a toad with horns on its vile head. And from time to time it draws water into its belly, and with the water everything that lives and can be eaten: fish, seals, turtles—everything. And then, having devoured its prey, it pukes up the water and we have the tide. What do you think about that?” “I think you’re a fool. Yennefer once told me that the moon causes the tides.” Dandelion cackled. “What bloody rubbish! What does the moon have to do with the sea? Only dogs howl at the moon. She was having you on, Geralt, that little liar of yours, she put one over on you.

He talked about the Land of Barsa, where a stupid custom required girls to guard their chastity until marriage;

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.

“Are you mocking me?” “Uh-huh.” “Know what? I can’t stand you.” “That’s dreadful. Ciri, you’ve stabbed me in the very heart.” “I know,” she nodded gravely, sniffing, and then clung tightly to him.

But Brokilon endures, the trees sough above the ruins of palaces, their roots break up the marble. Does your Venzlav recall those kings? Do you, Gwynbleidd? And if not, how can you claim that something is ending? How do you know whose destiny is destruction and whose eternity? What entitles you to speak of destiny? Do you actually know what it is?”

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

“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. Do you remember me?” “Ca… Calanthe!”

“Ciri?” “Uh-huh?” “You were also enjoying yourself at my expense.” “Me?” “You’re the daughter of Pavetta and the granddaughter of Calanthe of Cintra. You knew who I was from the very beginning, didn’t you?”

“But my nanny said… She said that I’m destined. Because I’m a Surprise. A Child of Surprise. Geralt?” “Ciri,” he looked at her, shaking his head and smiling. “Believe me, you’re the greatest surprise I could have come across.”

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 cannot, I may not expose you to that, Ciri. “I am your destiny!” The words reached his ears from the hilltop, more softly, more despairingly.

Logic is the mother of all knowledge.

“Geralt?” “Yes, Calanthe?” “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.”

“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.

“No. No, I don’t. I quit, I renounce it. I renounce my right to the boy. 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. This is my irrevocable decision, O Calanthe of Cintra.”

The chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling for no reason, looking like a teenager. He had liked her. And she had liked him.

“Who are you?” he asked slowly. She smiled and emanated cold. “Don’t you know?” Yes, I do, he thought, gazing into the cold blue of her eyes. Yes, I think I do. He was tranquil. He could not be anything else. Not anymore. “I’ve always wondered what you look like, my lady.” “You don’t have to address me like that,” she answered softly. “We’ve known each other for years, after all.” “We have,” he agreed. “They say you dog my footsteps.” “I do. But you have never looked behind you. Until today. Today, you looked back for the first time.” He was silent. He had nothing to say. He was weary. “How… How will it happen?” he finally asked, cold and emotionless. “I’ll take you by the hand,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes. “I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.” “And then? What is there, beyond the fog?” “Nothing,” she smiled. “There is nothing more.”

“He might as well. For it’s a human and a good thing.” “What?” “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; don’t try to get round me. I said get rid of that sack. What’s in it, dammit? Gold?”

“Forever, Ciri.” “It’s like they said! Geralt! It’s like they said! Am I your destiny? Say it! Am I your destiny?” Yurga saw the Witcher’s eyes. And was very astonished. He heard his wife’s soft weeping, felt the trembling of her shoulders. He looked at the Witcher and waited, tensed, for his answer. He knew he would not understand it, but he waited for it. And heard it. “You’re more than that, Ciri. Much more.”