Season of Storms (The Witcher, #6)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

I consider gazing into the abyss utter foolishness. There are many things in the world much more worth gazing into. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

No, they didn’t. The Witcher clenched his jaw. Because they haven’t yet fully regained consciousness. And I’ll be gone before they do. Before they realise I used them as bait, convinced in my conceited arrogance that I was capable of saving all three of them. I’ll be gone before it dawns on the girl, before she understands I’m to blame for her becoming a half-orphan. He felt bad. No doubt because of the elixirs he’d taken before the fight. No doubt.

‘A witcher,’ she stated. ‘Two swords. Steel and silver.’

‘He has a sign,’ she stated. ‘There’s a wolf on it, fangs bared. Would seem to be a witcher. Do we let him through?’ ‘Rules don’t prohibit it. He’s handed over his swords . .

‘Why to me?’ ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover.’ The guard looked down on the Witcher from two steps higher up. ‘You are a foreigner, a walking illustration of that old folk saying. Your cover is nothing to write home about. Perhaps there are other objects hidden in its pages, but I shan’t pry. I repeat, this is an exclusive tavern. We don’t tolerate people dressed like ruffians here. Or armed.’ ‘I’m not armed.’ ‘But you look like you are. So kindly take yourself off somewhere else.’

‘Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher. Known for protecting people and saving their lives. As he did a week ago, here, in our region, in Ansegis, when he saved a mother and her child. And several months earlier, he famously killed a man-eating leucrote in Cizmar, suffering wounds in so doing. How could you bar entry to my tavern to somebody who plies such an honest trade?

Secundo, I like beating people up. Tertio, it’s a falsehood. They self-inflicted their wounds. By banging themselves against the wall. To slander me.’ He spoke slowly and carelessly. After a week spent in prison he had become utterly indifferent.

But he knew perfectly well who the noble-looking man’s companion was. A dandy in a fanciful hat with an egret feather stuck into it, with shoulder-length blond hair curled with irons. Wearing a doublet the colour of red wine and a shirt with a lace ruffle. Along with his ever-present lute and with that ever-present insolent smile on his lips.

‘Greetings, Witcher! What do you look like? With that smashed-up fizzog! I’ll split my sides laughing!’ ‘Greetings, Dandelion. I’m pleased to see you too.’

And because Julian – I mean Lord Dandelion – vouches for you, I’m certain that your case will be satisfactorily solved in court.’

I vouched for your honesty. I talked about Yennefer . . .’ ‘Thank you very much.’ ‘Drop the sarcasm. I had to talk about her to help my cousin realise that the local witch is maligning and slandering you out of jealousy and envy.

‘Well, yes,’ he sighed. ‘I understand. Like my lute, your swords are also unique and irreplaceable. And what’s more . . . What were you saying? Enchanted? Triggering magical impotence . . . Dammit, Geralt! Now you tell me. I mean, I’ve often spent time in your company, I’ve had those swords at arm’s length! And sometimes closer! Now everything’s clear, now I get it . . . I’ve been having certain difficulties lately, dammit . . .’ ‘Relax. That impotence thing was nonsense. I made it up on the spot, hoping the rumour would spread. That the thief would take fright

‘We shall find a remedy for that,’ the troubadour said proudly. ‘I shall support you financially . . . Geralt? What’s going on?’

‘I had to buy it,’ admitted Dandelion. ‘And I think I did the right thing. You wield a mean plank, I can see. You should pack one all the time.’ ‘I’m going to the sorceress. To pay her a visit. Should I take the stave?’ ‘Something heavier would come in useful with a sorceress.’ The bard grimaced. ‘A fence post, for example. A philosopher acquaintance of mine used to say: when visiting a woman, never forget to take a—’ ‘Dandelion.’

Guard against disappointments, because appearances can deceive. Things that are really as they seem are rare. And a woman is never as she seems. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

‘Oh well,’ she said a moment later. ‘There’s no point beating about the bush. Witchers have never been highly thought of in our circles, so it sufficed to ignore you. At least up to a certain moment.’ ‘Until—’ he’d had enough of fudging ‘—I embarked on a romance with Yennefer.’ ‘No, no, you’re mistaken.’ She fixed eyes the colour of jade on him. ‘Twice over, actually. Primo, you didn’t embark on a romance with Yennefer, but she with you.

‘Oh. Let it be. So, I ask you. Why Yennefer? Why her and no one else? Could you explain it? Name it?’ ‘If this is another wager—’ ‘It’s not. Why exactly Yennefer of Vengerberg?’

‘Why Yennefer?’ he repeated, staring at Mozaïk. ‘Why her, precisely? I’ll answer frankly: I don’t know myself. There are certain women . . . One look is enough . . .’

Dandelion put Geralt up at the inn. The room the bard was occupying was cosy. In the literal sense – they had to cosy up to pass each other. Fortunately, the bed was big enough for two and was serviceable, although it creaked dreadfully and the paillasse had been compacted by travelling merchants, well-known enthusiasts of ardent extramarital sex.

Dandelion was treating him. Which didn’t inconvenience Geralt. After all, it had quite often been the other way around, with Dandelion taking advantage of Geralt’s generosity when he was skint.

And I’m alone, completely alone, endlessly alone among the strange and hostile elements. Solitude amid a sea of strangeness. Don’t you dream of that?’ No, I don’t, he thought. I have it every day.

‘You aren’t safe here. You’re here with her out of sorrow for the other one. Even when you’re close to her you only think about the other one. She knows it. But she plays along, because it pleases her, and you dissemble splendidly; you’re awfully convincing. Have you thought about what will happen when you give yourself away?’

‘She’s playing with you and toying with you.’ ‘I know.’ ‘You, meanwhile, are simply filling the void after Yennefer, whom you can’t forget about.’ ‘I know.’ ‘So why—?’ ‘I don’t know.’

Dark, violet eyes look out from the depths. Raven-black locks fall onto shoulders in cascades, gleam, reflect light like a peacock’s feathers, writhing and rippling with every movement . . . ‘The swords,’ Coral reminded him, quietly and scathingly. ‘You were supposed to be thinking about the swords.’ The water swirled, the black-haired, violet-eyed woman disappeared in the vortex. Geralt sighed softly. ‘Think about the swords,’ hissed Lytta. ‘Not her!’

He saw a sea of grass: a boundless plain reaching to the horizon. He saw it from above, as though from a bird’s-eye view . . . Or from the top of a hill. A hill, down whose slopes descend a row of vague shapes. When they turned their heads, he saw unmoving faces, unseeing, dead eyes. They’re dead, he suddenly realised. It’s a cortège of the dead . . . Lytta’s fingers squeezed his hand again. With the strength of pliers.

I shall reveal one secret to you. About witcher swords. It’s poppycock that they have some kind of secret power. And that they are supposedly wonderful weapons. That there are no better ones. It’s all fiction, invented for the sake of appearances. I know this from a quite certain source. Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry

‘As far as I recall,’ he said, answering a question with a question, ‘you have studied all seven liberal arts?’ ‘And I graduated summa cum laude.’

A dagger was confiscated from Geralt. Dandelion, who never carried any weapons, was relieved of a comb and a corkscrew. But – after a moment’s thought – he was allowed to keep his lute.

‘I heard,’ confirmed the poet, looking at Geralt’s back and clenching his teeth. ‘But it wasn’t a joke, it was quite serious. I also, equally solemnly, declare that I shan’t be gracing your granddaughter’s nuptial ceremony with a performance. You can forget it after the way you’ve treated Geralt. And that applies to any other occasions, including christenings and funerals. Yours included.’

‘Some people found you disgusting, but tolerated you out of necessity, as a lesser evil, as the killer of the monsters that threaten them,’ he continued. ‘Some couldn’t bear you as a mutant, felt repulsion and abomination as though to an inhuman creature. Others were terribly afraid of you and hated themselves for their own fear. All that will sink into oblivion.

Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry (a passage of a rough draft never officially published) Verily, the Witcher was greatly in my debt. More and more every day.

And just beyond it the inscription: Draw me not without reason; sheath me not without honour. Meaning the blade was wrought in the Nilfgaardian city of Viroleda, a place famous throughout the world for its armourers’ forges. I touch the blade with the tip of my thumb – razor-sharp, I swear.

They are both – I had the impression – as slippery as turds in mayonnaise. If you know what I mean.’ Geralt confirmed he knew and that he had the same impression when he spoke to Egmund, only he was unable to express it in such beautiful words. Then he pondered deeply.

But I said nothing, for I know him. He can’t bear anyone to talk tactlessly about his women. Even brief dalliances.

The unfriendly tongues I mentioned posit that your favour towards the Witcher comes from a desire to annoy our consoror Yennefer, who is still said to be interested in the Witcher. The naivety and ignorance of those schemers is indeed pitiful. Since it is widely known that Yennefer is in an ardent relationship with a certain young entrepreneur from the jewellery trade, and she cares as much about the Witcher and his transient love affairs as she does about last year’s snow.

We know Geralt has something against us, it’s audible in every word he utters. We know why that is, we know how the affair with Yennefer saddened him. And the reaction of the wizarding community to the affair. We shan’t change that.

He, Ortolan, would give humanity the benefit of peace, even if it would first be necessary to destroy half of it.

By the devil, he thought, I don’t remember when I last laughed so heartily. Probably in Kaer Morhen, he recalled, yes, in Kaer Morhen. When that rotten plank broke underneath Vesemir in the privy. ‘He’s still laughing, the pup,’ cried out Ortolan. ‘He’s neighing like an ass! Doltish whippersnapper! To think I came to your defence when others vilified you! So what if he has become enamoured of little Yennefer? I said. And what if little Yennefer dotes on him? The heart is no servant, I said, leave them both in peace!’

Who didn’t hesitate to work as hired assassins. Am I to remind you of the psychopaths who wore medallions with a cat’s head, and who were also amused by the killing being wrought around them?’

Which was why he knew that declarations about their safety could be classified along with such statements as: ‘my little dog doesn’t bite’, ‘my son’s a good boy’, ‘this stew’s fresh’, ‘I’ll give you the money back the day after tomorrow at the latest’, ‘he was only getting something out of my eye’, ‘the good of the fatherland comes before everything’, and ‘just answer a few questions and you’re free to go’.

It’s good to feel fear. If you feel fear it means there’s something to be feared, so be vigilant. Fear doesn’t have to be overcome. Just don’t yield to it. And you can learn from it.

But to blame mages for all adversities and disasters is probably an exaggeration. You’re talking about natural phenomena, after all, Frans. It’s simply that kind of season. A season of storms.’

Have you ever angled, Witcher? Does hunting attract you?’ ‘I hunt when I have an urge for a fish. I always carry a line with me.’ Pinety was silent for a long time. ‘A line,’ he finally uttered in a strange tone. ‘A line, with a lead weight. With many little hooks. On which you skewer worms?’ ‘Yes. Why?’ ‘Nothing. It was a needless question.’

Degerlund’s voice had changed. His eyes, a moment before tearful, now lit up hideously and his lips contorted repugnantly. ‘Yes, that’s right. Firmly and tenderly. As though I were your Yennefer.’

‘You turned out to be as naive as a child. The Witcher Geralt of Rivia! Although his instinct didn’t mislead him he didn’t kill, because he wasn’t certain. For he’s a good witcher and a good man. Shall I tell you, good witcher, what good people are? They’re people whom fate hasn’t blessed with the chance of profiting from the benefits of being evil. Or alternatively people who were given a chance but were too stupid to take advantage of it. It doesn’t matter which group you belong to.

Firstly, he was still alive, and where there’s life there’s hope, as his preceptor in Kaer Morhen, Vesemir, used to say.

He thinks that it’s better to be blind than deceased, furthermore he hesitates at the thought of causing pain to your lover, Yennefer of Vengerberg, for whom he feels a great and – in his case, strange – affection.

‘But where Yennefer is concerned—’ the sorcerer leaned over even closer, the Witcher could smell his minty breath ‘—unlike Ortolan, the thought of causing her suffering pleases me inordinately. Thus, I shall cut off the part she valued most in you; I shall send it to her in Vengerb—’ Geralt placed his fingers in a Sign and touched the sorcerer’s face. Sorel Degerlund choked and drooped on the chair. He snorted. His eyes had sunk deep into his skull, his head lolled on his shoulder. The medallion chain slipped from his limp fingers.

Only a small percentage of the social elite consisted of people who thought that ‘Hygiene’ was a prostitute and ‘gonorrhoea’ a member of the lark family. Only a small number of the labouring and farming folk were morons who lived solely for today and today’s vodka, incapable of comprehending with their vestigial intellects something as incomprehensible as tomorrow and tomorrow’s vodka.

When serving in the army I heard something quite different about witchers. They hire themselves out for everything: to spy, to guard, even to assassinate. They called them the “Cats”.