The Sword of Destiny (35 page)

"In the taking, you stir up animosity and the desire for vengeance. You promote hatred."

"Human hatred... Nothing new under the sun. No, Geralt. I will not give her back. Especially since she is healthy. It's somewhat rare today."

"Somewhat rare?"

The dryad directed her large silver eyes to him:

"They abandon sick girls to me: diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, and even smallpox lately. They think that we have no immunity and that an epidemic will destroy us, or at least decimate our ranks. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilone takes care of its children."

Eithne fell silent. She leaned down and used her second hand to delicately untangle a stubborn knot.

"May I divulge the content of the message sent to you by the king Venzlav?"

"Isn't it a waste of time?" asked the dryad, raising her head. "Why trouble yourself? I know perfectly well what King Venzlav intends to offer me. There is no need for the gift of clairvoyance to know that. He wants me to grant him a part of Brokilone's territory from, let's say, up to the Vda river which he considers or would like to consider a natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I suppose that he will offer me an enclave: a little piece of wild forest. I suppose also that his word and his royal prerogative guarantees that this little bit of wild land, this modest patch of primeval forest, will be ours for ever and ever, and that no-one will dare attack the dryads, that they will be able to live there in peace. What, Geralt? Venzlav wants to end a war with Brokilone that has lasted for two centuries? And for this, the dryads should offer that for which they have perished for two hundred years? Offer Brokilone? So easily?"

Geralt kept silent. He had nothing to add. The dryad laughed.

"The proposition of the king is like this, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it is less hypocritical: 'Come down from your complacency, old bogey of the woods, savage beast, relic of the past, and hear what we, King Venzlav, desire: cedar, oak and white hickory, and then mahogany, golden birch, yew for bows and pine for planks. Brokilone runs alongside us, but we import our wood from behind the mountains. We want the iron and copper that's hidden in your basement. We want the gold veins of Craag An. We want to attack, sawing and digging, without hearing the hiss of your arrows. And most importantly: we want to finally become master of all the kingdom has to offer. We do not want a Brokilone and a forest through which we cannot march. Such an entity hurts our pride, irritates us and keeps us awake, as we are, we humans, the owners of the world. We can tolerate in this world some elves, dryads or naiads, provided these creatures stay discreet. Accept our will, Sovereign of Brokilone, or perish.'"

"Eithne, you have yourself agreed that Venzlav is neither so idiotic nor fanatical. You know without a doubt that he is a just king, venerating peace, saddened and worried when blood is shed..."

"If he keeps his distance from Brokilone, not a drop of blood will spill."

"You know very well," replied Geralt, lifting his head, "that the situation is somewhat different: humans have been killed at the Scorched Earth, at the Eighth League, in the hills of the Owl; and then too in Brugge, on the left bank of the Ruban. All these places are situated outside of Brokilone. The forest was cleared there a hundred years ago!"

"What meaning do a hundred years have for Brokilone? And a hundred winters?"

Geralt was silent.

The dryad gave him an indifferent glance, then caressed Ciri's ashen hair.

"Accept Venzlav's proposal, Eithne."

The dryad gave him an indifferent glance.

"What will that give us, we the children of Brokilone?"

"The possibility of survival. No, Eithne, don't interrupt me. I know what you mean. I understand your pride in an independent Brokilone. But the world changes. An era is coming to an end. Whether you like it or not, the humans' mastery of the world is a fact. Only those who assimilate into their society survive. The others disappear. Eithne, there exist forests where dryads, water sprites and elves live peacefully in accord with the humans. We are so close to each other. Humans can become the fathers of your children. What does this war you are waging give you? The potential fathers of your children fall one by one to your arrows. What is the cost? How many dryads by blood are there in Brokilone? How many girls are abducted and educated? You even need a Freixenet. You have no choice. I only see her: a little human girl terrorized and stultified by drugs, paralyzed with fear..."

"I'm not afraid at all!" Ciri cried then, taking up for an instant her devilish expression. "And I'm not stultified! That's not true! Nothing can happen to me here. That's the truth! I'm

not afraid! Grandmother said that dryads aren't evil, and my grandmother is the most intelligent woman in the world! My grandmother... my grandmother said that there must be forests like this..."

She stopped and bowed her head. Eithne burst into laughter:

"Child of Old Blood," she said. "Yes, Geralt, the Children of Old Blood of which you speak continue to be born throughout the world. And you, you tell me about the end of an era... You ask me if we will survive..."

"The brat was to be married to Kistrin of Verden," cut in Geralt. "It's a shame that union must now be impossible. Kistrin will one day succeed Ervyll: under the influence of a wife with such opinions, the expeditions against Brokilone would quickly end."

"I don't want Kistrin!" the little girl protested softly. A light appeared in her green eyes. "What Kistrin is looking for is a pretty and stupid material. I am not a material that is available! I will not become a royal princess!"

"Silence, Child of Old Blood." the dryad pressed Ciri to her breast. "Do not cry. You will never become a royal princess, of course..."

"Of course," interrupted the witcher. "And you and I, Eithne, know very well what Ciri will become. I see that this fate is already decided. Too bad. What response shall I report to King Venzlav, Sovereign of Brokilone?"

"None."

"What do you mean, none?"

"None. He will understand. Once, long ago, before Venzlav was in the world, heralds were sent to the border of Brokilone. Horns and trumpets sounded; armor shone; standards and pennants flapped in the wind. They proclaimed, "Give back Brokilone! King Capradonte, sovereign of the Bald Mountain and the Flooded Prairie, requires that you abdicate Brokilone!" The response of Brokilone was always the same. When you leave my forest, Gwynbleidd, turn around and listen. In the whisper of leaves, you will hear the response of Brokilone. Send it to Venzlav and add that as sure as the oaks of Duen Canell, he will never hear any other. To the last tree, to the last dryad."

Geralt remained silent.

"You say that an era is ending," Eithne continued slowly. "You're wrong. There are things that will never end. You speak of survival? Well, I fight for my survival. Brokilone remains thanks to my fighting: the trees live longer than humans, but they must be protected from axes. You speak to me of kings and princes. Who are they? They are what I know as the skeletons of bleached bones that lie in the depths of the forest, in the necropolis of Craag An, in the marble tombs, on the heaps of yellow metal and shining stones. Meanwhile, Brokilone remains; the trees sing over the ruins of palaces; their roots crack the marble. Your Venzlav recalls those kings? Yourself, do you remember, Gwynbleidd? If not, how can you say that an era ends? What can you know of extermination or of eternity? What right do you have to speak of destiny? Do you have the least sense of destiny?"

"No," he agreed. "I don't. But..."

"If you do not know," she interrupted, "no 'but' can apply. You do not know. It's as simple as that."

Eithne lapsed into silence and turned her head, touching her forehead.

"When you came here for the first time, all those years ago, you did not already know. And Morenn... my daughter... Geralt, Morenn is dead. She perished on the border of Ruban in defense of Brokilone. I could not recognize her, what she was reduced to. Her face had been trampled by the hooves of your horses. Destiny? Today, witcher, you who were unable to give descendants to Morenn, you bring me a Child of Old Blood. A little girl who knows what destiny is. No, it is not likely that you will be able to accept and agree with such sensitive knowledge. Repeat for me, Ciri, repeat what you told me before White Wolf, the

witcher Geralt of Rivia, entered the room. Again, Child of Old Blood."

"Your majes... Noble lady," began Ciri in a broken voice. "Don't force me to stay here. I can't... I want... to go. I want to go with Geralt. I must... with him..."

"Why with him?"

"Because it is my destiny."

Eithne turned. Her face was extremely pale.

"What do you think, Geralt?"

The witcher did not answer. Eithne snapped her fingers. Braenn burst into the interior of the oak like a phantom appearing from the night. She held in both her hands a silver chalice. The medallion Geralt wore around his neck began to shake rapidly.

"What do you think?" repeated the silver-haired dryad, rising. "She will not stay in Brokilone! She does not want to be a dryad! She will not replace Morenn for me! She wants to go, go, follow her destiny! Is that so, Child of Old Blood? Is that really what you want?"

Ciri affirmed this with a nod of her head. Her shoulders shook. The witcher had had enough.

"Why do you badger this child, Eithne, since you have already decided to give her the Water of Brokilone? Her will then ceases to have any importance. Why would you behave like this? Why give me this spectacle?"

"I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove that nothing ends. That everything is always just beginning."

"No, Eithne," he said, rising. "Sorry to spoil this performance, but I have no intention of continuing to be the privileged spectator. You have crossed the line, Sovereign of Brokilone, presenting in this manner the gulf that separates us. You, the elder races, you love to repeat that hatred is a stranger to you, that the sentiment remains a human specialty. That is not true. You also know hate, you know what hatred is. You only dress it up differently: with more wisdom, less violence. And so perhaps with more cruelty. I accept your hatred, Eithne, in the name of all human beings. I deserve it, even though I am sorry for Morenn."

The dryad did not respond.

"Here then is the response from Brokilone that I am supposed to bring to Venzlav of Brugge, isn't it? Warning and defiance? Living proof of the hatred and power that slumber among these trees: a child will receive from the hands of another human child, whose mind and memory were also destroyed, a poison to erase her past. And this response must be conveyed to Venzlav by a witcher who, moreover, knows and has grown fond of these children? A witcher, responsible for the death of your daughter? Well, Eithne, so be it, in accordance with your will. Venzlav will hear your answer. My voice and my eyes are messengers for the king to decipher. But I do not have to watch the spectacle being prepared. I refuse."

Eithne was still silent.

"Goodbye, Ciri." Geralt knelt and pulled the little girl to him; Ciri's shoulders never stopped shaking. "Don't cry. You know that nothing bad can happen to you."

Ciri sniffled. The witcher rose.

"Goodbye, Braenn," he said to the young dryad. "Go in peace and take care of yourself. May your life be as long as that of the trees of Brokilone. And one more thing..."

"Yes, Gwynbleidd?"

Braenn had lifted her head: her eyes were moist.

"It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. It is easy to let go of the string and think: This isn't me, it's the arrow. My hands do not bear the blood of this boy, it's the arrow that killed him, not me. But the arrow does not dream at night. I wish for you not to dream either, little blue-eyed dryad. Farewell, Braenn."

"Mona!" Braenn murmured indistinctly.

The cup that she held in her hands began to tremble. Its clear liquid covered them in rivulets.

"What?"

"Mona!" she cried. "My name is Mona! Madame Eithne, I..."

"Enough," Eithne interrupted harshly. "That is enough, control yourself, Braenn."

Geralt laughed.

"Here is your destiny, Dame of the Forest. I respect your resistance and your struggle, but I know that soon you will be alone: the last dryad in Brokilone will send young girls to their deaths remembering their real names. I wish you good luck even so, Eithne. Goodbye."

"Geralt," murmured Ciri, still standing motionless, her back bent. "Don't leave me alone..."

"White Wolf," said Eithne, taking Ciri's bent back in her arms, "what must she ask of you? Have you decided to abandon her despite this? Are you afraid not to stay with her to the end? Why do you leave her at such a time, leave her alone? Where do you flee, Gwynbleidd? What do you flee?"

Ciri bowed her head even more, but did not start to cry.

"Until the end," agreed the witcher. "Well, Ciri. You will not be alone. I will stay with you. Don't be afraid of anything."

Eithne took the chalice from Braenn's trembling hands and lifted it.

"Can you decipher the ancient runes, White Wolf?"

"Yes."

"Read what is engraved. This is the chalice of Craag An. All the kings now forgotten have wet their lips from it."

"Duettaedn aefcirrdn Cderme Gleddyv. Yn esseth. "

"Do you know what that means?"

"The sword of destiny has two edges... You are one of them."

"Arise, Child of Old Blood." The dryad's voice intimated an unconditional order, an implacable will: "Drink. It is the Water of Brokilone."

Geralt bit his lip, searching the silver eyes of Eithne. His gaze avoided Ciri, who placed her mouth at the rim of the chalice. He had seen it already, before, an identical scene: the convulsions, the hiccups, a terrible cry, unheard, which was extinguished at last little by little. Then the void, the torpor and apathy in the eyes that opened slowly. He had seen it all.

Ciri drank the liquid. On Braenn's motionless face, a tear formed.

"That's enough."

Eithne took the cup from her and placed it on the ground. With both hands, she stroked the ashen hair that fell upon the shoulders of the little girl.