Blood of Elves (The Witcher, #1)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

Children of elves, dwarves, halflings, gnomes, half-elves, quarter-elves and toddlers of mysterious provenance neither knew nor recognised racial or social divisions. At least, not yet.

You started persecuting mixed relationships less than a quarter of a century ago and, incidentally, not very successfully.

“You travelled with him,” she said finally. “Thanks to you he was not alone. You were a friend to him. You were with him.” The bard lowered his eyes. “He didn’t get much from it,” he muttered. “He didn’t get much from our friendship. He had little but trouble because of me. He constantly had to get me out of some scrape… help me…” She leaned across the table, put her hand on his and squeezed it hard without saying anything. Her eyes held regret.

Intolerance and superstition has always been the domain of the more stupid amongst the common folk and, I conjecture, will never be uprooted, for they are as eternal as stupidity itself. There, where mountains tower today, one day there will be seas; there where today seas surge, will one day be deserts. But stupidity will remain stupidity. Nicodemus de Boot, Meditations on Life, Happiness and Prosperity

Beautiful, long, loose hair was a rarity, an indication of a woman’s position, her status, the sign of a free woman, a woman who belonged to herself. The sign of an unusual woman—because “normal” maidens wore their hair in plaits, “normal” married women hid theirs beneath a caul or a coif. Women of high birth, including queens, curled their hair and styled it. Warriors cut it short. Only druids and magicians—and whores—wore their hair naturally so as to emphasise their independence and freedom.

No, Triss had not desired to take him away from Yennefer. As a matter of fact, her friend was more important to her than he was. But her brief relationship with the witcher had not disappointed. She had found what she was looking for—emotions in the form of guilt, anxiety and pain. His pain. She had experienced his emotions, it had excited her and, when they parted, she had been unable to forget it. And she had only recently understood what pain is. The moment when she had overwhelmingly wanted to be with him again. For a short while—just for a moment—to be with him.

“Didn’t you know? Even when something bad happens to you, you have to go straight back to that piece of equipment or you get frightened. And if you’re frightened you’ll be hopeless at the exercise. You mustn’t give up. Geralt said so.”

“It is the rose,” the girl said calmly. “The rose of Shaerrawedd. I pricked myself. It is nothing. It is only blood. The blood of elves…”

“She is not a child,” the voice repeated. “She is the Flame, the White Flame which will set light to the world. She is the Elder Blood, Hen Ichaer. The blood of elves. The seed which will not sprout but burst into flame. The blood which will be defiled… When Tedd Deireádh arrives, the Time of End. Va’esse deireádh aep eigean!”

When you know about something it stops being a nightmare. When you know how to fight something, it stops being so threatening.

By retreating you gave me the opportunity to put more force into the strike.

“I believe that. But I’m not gallant enough. Nor valiant enough. I’m not suited to be a soldier or a hero. And having an acute fear of pain, mutilation and death is not the only reason. You can’t stop a soldier from being frightened but you can give him motivation to help him overcome that fear. I have no such motivation. I can’t have. I’m a witcher: an artificially created mutant. I kill monsters for money. I defend children when their parents pay me to.

No witcher has yet died of old age, lying in bed dictating his will. Not a single one. Ciri didn’t surprise or frighten me. I know I’m going to die in some cave which stinks of carcases, torn apart by a griffin, lamia or manticore. But I don’t want to die in a war, because they’re not my wars.”

“Elves!” snorted Yarpen. “They—to be accurate—happen to be strangers just as much as you humans, although they arrived in their white ships a good thousand years before you.

“So the first on earth were dwarves?” “Gnomes, to be honest.

“Never make the same mistake, little witcher-girl,” he murmured, indicating the wagon with his eyes. “If someone shows you compassion, sympathy and dedication, if they surprise you with integrity of character, value it but don’t mistake it for… something else.”

Elves live for a long time, but only their youngsters are fertile, only the young can have offspring. And practically all the elven youngsters had followed Elirena.

“I lose a great deal of my charm when one gets to know me better.

That was a great blow for Redanian merchants so Vizimir increased the tax on Temerian products. He is defending the Redanian economy. Temeria is flooded with cheap goods coming from Nilfgaardian manufactories. That’s why the customs officers are so keen. If too many Nilfgaardian goods were to cross the border, the Redanian economy would collapse.

I know you’re almost forty, look almost thirty, think you’re just over twenty and act as though you’re barely ten.

Apart from that, Philippa Eilhart was an important figure in the Council of Wizards, and King Vizimir’s trusted court magician. She was a very talented enchantress. Word had it that she was one of the few to have mastered the art of polymorphy. She looked thirty. In truth she was probably no less than three hundred years old.

The Scoia’tael commandos have thirty- or forty-year-old elves fighting for them. And they live for three hundred years! They have time, we don’t!”

You have made a mistake. You mistook the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.

You mistake the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.”

The lower half of Lydia van Bredevoort’s face was an illusion.

Ciri spat, but then immediately had second thoughts, smiled pleasantly and fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, Jarre, tell me, please! You’re so clever! You can talk so beautifully and learnedly, I could listen to you for hours! Please, Jarre!”

If your fate had turned out differently… If it weren’t for the war, you’d have long been the wife of some duke or prince. You realise that, don’t you?

If the ability to make use of experience and draw conclusions decided, we would have forgotten what war is a long time ago. But those whose goal is war have never been held back, nor will be, by experience or analogy.”

“Longing,” she answered gravely. “Regret. Hope. And fear. Yes, I don’t think I have omitted anything.

Magic is, therefore, the revenge and the weapon of Chaos. The fact that, following the Conjunction of the Spheres, people have learned to use magic, is the curse and undoing of the world. The undoing of mankind.

The fact that following the Conjunction of the Spheres we discovered magic will, one day, allow us to reach the stars.

Chaos extends its talons towards you, still uncertain if you will be its tool or an obstacle in its design. That which Chaos shows you in your dreams is this very uncertainty. Chaos is afraid of you, Child of Destiny. But it wants you to be the one who feels fear.”

My Mistress used to say that emitting the force must be like blowing a raspberry in a ballroom; do it gently, sparingly, and with control.

“It’s been so long, why isn’t Geralt… Why isn’t he coming?” “He’s forgotten about you, no doubt, ugly one. He’s found himself a prettier girl.” “Oh, no! I know he hasn’t forgotten! He couldn’t have! I know that, I know that for certain, Lady Yennefer!” “It’s good you know. You’re a lucky ugly one.”

Take care of her, Yennefer. Keep her safe, like the apple of your eye.” “I hope”—the magician smiled faintly—“that I’ll manage to keep her safer.”