The Tower of Swallows (The Witcher #4)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

Cahir, wrinkling his brow imperiously, shouted back something menacing about imperial service, backing up his words with the classically military and ever effective “for fuck’s sake.”

Might one know, Geralt, what provokes your peals of laughter? Let me hazard a guess… Congenital imbecility?”

“You are not. The sword is for her, not for you. Come here, girl with a collar on her neck. Examine the marks etched into the blade. You don’t understand them, naturally. But I shall explain them to you. Look. 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. Take this sword. And may what is to come about, come about.”

Just don’t cry, thought Ciri, pushing harder and harder down on the sword. Just don’t cry, there’s nothing to cry over. One quick thrust and it will all be over… It will all be over…

She was silent for a time. “Witcher?” “Yes.” “I know how to express gratitude. So if you’d ever like to…” “Excuse me?”

Geralt cleared his throat. He was growing to like the young Nilfgaardian more and more. He was not only brave, but smart too.

“And you? Don’t you have dreams now?” “I do,” he said bitterly. “But seldom since we crossed the Yaruga. And I remember nothing after waking. Something has ended in me, Cahir. Something has burned out. Something has ruptured in me…” “Never mind, Geralt. I shall dream for both of us.”

“I’m aware of that. And should we find her? What then?” “We shall see. We shall see, Cahir.” “Don’t deceive me. Be frank. You won’t let me take her, will you?” He didn’t reply. Cahir didn’t repeat the question. “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.”

“Dandelion claims that Duchess Henarietta is madly in love with him.” “Dandelion always claims that.”

“What is it, Witcher?” Geralt looked, saw it and sighed loudly. Angoulême also saw it. And paled. “Oh, fuck!”

“Your medallion, Geralt,” said Angoulême, standing beside him. “Eh?” He cleared his throat, for his throat was tight. “What did you say?” “Your silver medallion with the wolf. Schirrú had it. Now you’ve lost it forever. It’ll melt in that heat.” “Too bad,” he said a moment later, looking into the flaminika’s cornflower-blue eyes. “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.”

I’m ninety-four years old.

Brisingamen, the sacred jewel of Modron Freyja, was no longer hanging around the goddess’s neck. It was lying at her feet.

“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’ve investigated that matter long enough. And am certain of what I know.”

Yarl… She’s a clever and essentially good woman… But she doesn’t have any scruples. She is ruthless. And merciless.”

“The elf Avallac’h marked our awe and spake: ‘This is Tor Zireael, the Tower of the Swallow. This is the Gate of Worlds and the Threshold of Time. Feast your eyes on this sight, man, for not to everyone nor always is it given.’

In military citadels it was different. Emperor Fergus var Emreis—confirming women’s equality in the imperial army by special decree—had already ruled that if it was to be emancipation, then let it be emancipation. Equality ought to be complete and outright, without any exceptions or special privileges for either sex. Since then, inmates had been serving time in mixed cells in the strongholds and citadels.

“No. I’m a witcher! When they were teaching me, I swore I would act against Evil. Always. And without thinking… “Because when you start thinking,” she added hollowly, “killing stops making sense. Revenge stops making sense. And you can’t let that happen.”

“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’m Ciri of Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher! I’ve come here to kill you.”

“What have you done…?” the innkeeper groaned in the silence. “What have you done, girl…?” “I’m a witcher. I kill monsters.” “They’ll hang us… They’ll burn down the tavern and the village!” “I kill monsters,” she repeated, but in her voice suddenly appeared something like surprise. Something like hesitancy. Uncertainty.

“O Gods…” he whispered. “I don’t believe in you… But if you do exist…” A dreadful pain suddenly exploded in his chest, behind his breastbone. Somewhere in the swamps, far away, but much nearer than before, the beann’shie howled savagely for the third time. “If you do exist, protect the witcher girl on the road!”

“Mummy! Hold on! Don’t give up! I’m coming to help you!”

“What took you so long?” he asked with a smile. “What kept you?”