The Tower of the Swallow (The Witcher, #6)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

But no one could have seen that, much less heard it. For the cottage with the sunken, moss-grown thatched roof was well hidden among the fog, in a swamp where no one dared venture.

Had someone quietly crept up deep in the night to the remote cottage in the midst of the swamp with its sunken, moss-grown thatched roof, had they peered through the slits in the shutters, they would have seen a grey-bearded old man listening to the story told by a teenage girl with green eyes and ashen hair.

“It’s a kelpie! A kelpie! A havfrue!”

Oi, Dandelion! Are you writing that down? Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare, hear me?’

Vysogota leaned over and examined it, squinting. ‘An elven mandala,’ he said soon after, raising his head. ‘The so-called blathan caerme, or garland of destiny: stylised oak blossom, bridewort and broom flowers. A tower being struck by lightning – a symbol of chaos and destruction, for the Old Races . . . And above the tower–’ ‘A swallow,’ Ciri completed. ‘Zireael. My name.’

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.’

When the beekeeper learned about the druids he ran as quickly as he could to tell the Witcher. And now he was glowing with happiness, pride and a sense of importance, like every liar when his lies accidentally turn out to be true.

It is well known that when a witcher inflicts pain, suffering and death he experiences absolute ecstasy and bliss such as a devout and normal man only experiences during sexual congress with his wedded spouse, ibidem cum ejaculatio. This leads one to conclude that, also in this matter also, a witcher is a creature contrary to nature, an immoral and filthy degenerate, born of the blackest and most foul-smelling Hell, since surely only a devil could derive bliss from suffering and pain. Anonymous, Monstrum, or a description of a witcher

‘Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Angoulême.’

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.’ *

‘You’re alright. For a human.’ ‘Thank you. For the lift too.’ The knocker bared his teeth among his red beard, and breathed vodka. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

A fourth was sawing a fiddle with a bow – evidently found among the loot – and utterly failing to get even a single pure note from the instrument.

‘Your friends,’ the Chequered Knight displayed his acuity, ‘must be in that building! ’Pon my word, they’re in desperate straits! Onward! Let us hasten to their aid!’

‘Well, who’ll tell me now,’ he panted, looking at the twitching corpse, ‘that taking drugs isn’t bad for your health?’

‘Easy for you to say. I was fond of that ear.

No, I’m not a witcher now. So I’ll have to learn to manage without my medallion.’

‘We are, we are. Hand over the money, Dijkstra. To have a thousand and not to have a thousand—’ ‘. . . adds up to two thousand. I know.’

‘Are you capable of forgiveness?’ ‘I forgave long ago.’ ‘Having first satisfied your lust for vengeance.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you regret it?’ ‘No.’

The cock Kambi crows.

columns, perhaps statues . . . Darkness. In it, whispers soft as

‘But I,’ Ciri raised her head, ‘understood what had happened. I suddenly felt the Power in me. I’d lost it in Korath desert, I’d renounced it. Later I couldn’t draw on it, couldn’t make use of it. But she, that woman, had given me the Power, had literally shoved the weapon into my hand. It was my chance.’

‘And bury that scum in the muck, with that other scum, the hermaphrodite. Not a trace shall remain of those two execrable traitors.’

‘It was agreeable to have you to stay,’ he forestalled her. ‘Truly. Farewell, O witcher girl.’ ‘Farewell, O hermit. Thank you for everything.’

‘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.’

No, Yennefer. If you think so, you’re mistaking stars reflected in the surface of a pond at night for the sky.

The Elder Blood that flows in your veins gives you power over time. And over space. Over the dimensions and the spheres. You are now Master of the Worlds, Ciri. You have a mighty Power. Do not let criminals or rogues take it from you and use it to their own ends