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‘Evil is evil, Stregobor,’ said the witcher seriously as he got up. ‘Lesser, greater, middling, it’s all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I’m not a pious hermit, I haven’t done only good in my life. But if I’m to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all.
The lesser evil
You’re silent through choice; you’ve made it a sacrifice to your goddess. I don’t believe in Melitele, don’t believe in the existence of other gods either, but I respect your choice, your sacrifice. Your belief. Because your faith and sacrifice, the price you’re paying for your silence, will make you a better, a greater being. Or, at least, it could. But my faithlessness can do nothing. It’s powerless.
‘People,’ Geralt turned his head, ‘like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves. When they get blind-drunk, cheat, steal, beat their wives, starve an old woman, when they kill a trapped fox with an axe or riddle the last existing unicorn with arrows, they like to think that the Bane entering cottages at daybreak is more monstrous than they are. They feel better then. They find it easier to live.’
‘We poets have to know about everything,’ said Dandilion haughtily. ‘Otherwise we’d compromise our work. One has to learn, my dear fellow, learn.
They fell, shattering the stair balustrade and, with a deafening crash, landed on the table. The table had the right not to withstand the blow, and it didn’t.
Mr Errdil, what are you laughing at? It’s your house. What makes you so amused?’ ‘I had that wreck insured for a massive sum!’ ‘Does the policy cover magical and supernatural events?’ ‘Of course.’
