The Sword of Destiny (40 page)

want her too much, he thought, she will sense it; it might upset her. I'll ask her quietly if it's all right.

"It's nothing new to me," she said. Something trembled nonetheless in her voice. "Nothing worth mentioning."

"Don't do that to me, Yen. Don't read my mind. It bothers me."

"Forgive me. It's instinctive. And you, Geralt, what's new?"

"Nothing, nothing worth mentioning."

They remained silent.

"Belleteyn!" she cried suddenly. Geralt felt the shoulders pressed against his chest rise and fall. "They have fun. They celebrate the eternal cycle of nature. And us? What do we do? We, the relics, those condemned to death, to extermination and oblivion. Nature is reborn, the cycle repeats itself. But not us, Geralt. We can't perpetuate ourselves. We are denied that possibility. We have inherited the gift to do extraordinary things with nature, sometimes against it, but we have been deprived in return of what is most simple and natural. What does it matter that we live longer than humans? There is no spring after the winter; we are not reborn, our end carries us with it. But something draws us to the fires, even though our presence is a cruel joke, a sacrilege against this festival."

She fell silent. He didn't like to see her fall into such darkness. He knew too well the reason for it. It's starting to gnaw at her again, he thought. There had been a time when it seemed that she had forgotten or accepted her fate. He moved his shoulders, rocking her like a child. She did not resist. Geralt wasn't surprised; he knew that she needed it.

"You know, Geralt," she said, suddenly calm, "it's your silence that I've missed the most."

He pressed his lips to her hair, her ears. / want you, Yen, he thought, / want you, you know that. You know it well, Yen.

"I know," she murmured.

"Yen..."

"Only for now," she replied, watching him with wide-open eyes. "Only on this night that will soon disappear. That will be our Belleteyn. We will part in the morning. I beg you, don't count on anything more. I can't... I couldn't. Forgive me. If I hurt you, kiss me and let me go."

"If I kiss you, I'm not leaving."

"That's what I thought."

She bowed her head. Geralt kissed her parted lips. Cautiously: first the upper lip, then the lower. His hands tangled in her curls, touched her ears, the gems in the lobes, her neck. Returning his kiss, Yennefer drew herself to him; her nimble fingers had no trouble defeating the clasps of his jacket.

She slid back on the cloak arranged over the moss. Geralt kissed her breasts. He felt the nipples harden and rise up under the fine fabric of her blouse. Yennefer was breathing raggedly.

"Yen..."

"Don't say anything, please."

The touch of her bare skin, sweet and cold, electrified his palm and his fingers. Geralt's back shuddered under Yennefer's nails. Shouting, singing, whistling reached them all the while from the fires, in a distant whirlwind of sparks and purple smoke. Embraces, caresses. Him, her. Chills. And impatience. He touched the slender thighs closed around his hips that shook like a leaf.

Belleteyn!

Breaths and sighs began their ballet; lightning flashed before their eyes; the scent of lilac and gooseberry enveloped them. The King and the Queen of May, was it the expression

of a sacrilegious joke? Of oblivion?

It's Belleteyn, the night of May!

A piercing groan from Yen or from Geralt; black curls covering their eyes and mouths; trembling fingers entwined in their tightly-grasped hands. A cry; black lashes, damp; a groan.

Then silence. An eternity of silence.

Belleteyn... The fires on the horizon...

"Yen?"

"Oh... Geralt."

"Yen, are you crying?"

"No!"

"Yen..."

"I had promised myself... I had..."

"Don't say anything. It doesn't matter. Aren't you cold?"

"Yes."

"And now?"

"Warmer."

The sky cleared at a dizzying speed. The black wall of the forest regained its contours: the jagged line of the ridge of trees emerged from the indistinct darkness. Behind her, the azure announcement of dawn poured over the horizon, extinguishing the stars. It got colder. Geralt held Yennefer tighter. He covered her with his coat.

"Geralt?"

"Hmm..."

"The day will break."

"I know."

"Have I hurt you?"

"A little."

"Will it start all over?"

"Nothing ever stopped."

"Please... I feel good with you..."

"Don't say anything. Everything's fine."

The smell of smoke was rising from the heather. The smell of lilac and gooseberries.

"Geralt?"

"Yes?"

"Do you remember when we met the Great Mountain Kestrel? And the golden dragon? What was his name?"

"Three Kestrels. I remember."

"He told us..."

"I remember, Yen."

She kissed the back of his neck, pinning his head and tickling him with her hair.

"We were made for each other," she murmured. "Perhaps even destined for each other. But none of this can happen. It's a shame. We will have to separate when the day breaks. It can't be otherwise. We have to separate so as not to hurt each other: destined for each other, made for each other, but the one who created us should have thought of something more. Forgive me. I had to tell you."

"I know."

"Making love makes no sense."

"You're mistaken."

"Go back to Cintra, Geralt."

"What?"

"Go to Cintra. Go, and this time don't give up. Don't repeat the mistake from last time..."

"How do you know?"

"I know everything about you. Have you forgotten? Go to Cintra, go as fast as possible. A dark time approaches. Very dark. You must get there in time..."

"Yen..."

"No, don't say anything, please."

It was more and more fresh and more and more clear.

"Don't go now. Wait for the dawn."

"We'll wait."

IV

"Don't get up, lord. Your dressing needs to be changed, because the wound is dirty and your leg is horribly swollen. By the gods, it's awful... We need to find a healer as soon as possible..."

"To hell with healers!" groaned the witcher. "Give me my chest, Yurga. Yes, this flask. Pour it directly on the wound. Oh! By the plague and cholera! It's nothing, add more... Oh! That's good. Dress it and cover me..."

"It's swollen, lord, the whole thigh... And you're stricken with fever..."

"To hell with the fever... Yurga?"

"Yes, lord?"

"I forgot to thank you..."

"I'm not the one who should be thanked, lord, but you. It's you who saved my life. You have been injured in defending me. And me? What have I done? I only tended to an injured and unconscious man. I carried him in my cart and kept him from perishing. It's an ordinary thing, master witcher."

"Not so ordinary as that, Yurga. I have been abandoned in similar situations, like a dog..."

The merchant was silent, bowing his head.

"Yes... it happens. The world around us is horrible," he murmured at last. "But that's not a reason for all of us to behave so execrably. Good is necessary. That's what my father taught me and that's what I will teach my sons."

The witcher fell silent. He watched the tree branches that hung over the road and disappeared with the movement of the cart. His thigh came back to life. The pain was gone.

"Where are we?"

"We have just forded the Trava river. We are actually in the woods of Alkekenge. It's no longer Temeria, but Sodden. You were sleeping when we crossed the border and when customs officers searched the cart. I must tell you that they were surprised to find you there. But the oldest one knew you and they allowed us to go through."

"He knew me?"

"Yes, without a doubt. He called you Geralt. That's what he said: Geralt of Rivia. Isn't that your name?"

"So..."

"He promised to send someone ahead with word that a healer was needed. I gave him a little something so that he doesn't forget."

"I thank you, Yurga."

"No, lord. I already said: it's I who thank you. And that's not all. I am still in your

debt. We agreed... What's happening, lord? Are you losing your strength?"

"Yurga, give me the flask with the green seal..."

"Lord, you're going to go back... You cried out so terribly in your sleep..."

"I need it, Yurga..."

"As you wish. Wait while I pour it into a goblet... By the gods, we need a healer, as soon as possible, because otherwise..."

The witcher turned his head. He heard the cries of children playing in the ditch, drained, next to the castle gardens. There were a dozen of them. The kids made a devil of a racket, shouting to each others in their little falsettos, shrill and excited. They ran up and down the bottom of the ditch, resembling a school of small fish ceaselessly changing direction, but managing to stay together. As is always the case in these situations, a smaller one, out of breath, was trying to catch up with the gang of older ones, thin as scarecrows, who wrestled and shouted.

"There are a lot of them," the witcher remarked.

Mousesack gave him a forced smile, pulling on his beard and shrugging.

"Yes, a lot."

"And one of them... Which one of these boys is the famous surprise?"

"I can't, Geralt..."

"Calanthe?"

"Of course. You don't believe, I hope, that she would give you a child so easily? You know that, don't you? She is a woman of iron. I'll tell you something that I should not admit. In the hope that you understand... I'm also counting on you not to betray me to her."

"Speak."

"When the child was born six years ago, she called for me and ordered me to find you. To kill you."

"You refused."

"We refuse nothing to Calanthe," Mousesack replied seriously, looking him right in the eye. "I was ready to set out before she called me back. She revoked the order without comment. Be careful when you talk to her."

"I will be. Mousesack, tell me: what happened to Duny and Pavetta?"

"They were sailing to Skellig from Cintra when a storm surprised them. Nothing was recovered of the boat, not even some boards. Geralt... the fact that the child was not aboard with them is maddeningly strange. Incomprehensible. They had to take it with them on the ship, but they changed their minds at the last moment. No-one knows why. Pavetta was never apart from..."

"How did Calanthe handle this misfortune?"

"How do you think?"

"I see."

Hurling expletives, the children climbed like a band of goblins to the top of the ditch and immediately disappeared. Geralt noticed a little girl, just as thin and noisy as the boys, but with a plait of fair hair, keeping her distance from the head of the small group. With a savage cry, the little band slipped down the steep slope of the ditch again. At least half of them, the girl included, fell on their backsides. The youngest, still unable to catch up to the others, somersaulted and fell to the bottom where he began to bawl hot tears and rub his scraped knee. The other boys stood by, railing at him and laughing before resuming their course. The little girl knelt next to the boy, took him in her arms and dried his eyes, wiping the dust and dirt from a face grimacing in pain.

"Come on, Geralt. The queen awaits."

"So be it, Mousesack."

Calanthe was sitting on a wooden bench with a backrest, which was suspended by

chains from one of the main branches of an enormous linden tree. It seemed that she was napping, save for the small kick of her foot she gave from time to time to revive the swing. Three young women remained at her side. One was sitting on the grass near the swing. Her dress fanned over the grass and formed a white spot on the green, like a patch of snow. The other two were arguing further away, delicately picking strawberries.

"Madam," said Mousesack, bowing.

The queen lifted her head. Geralt knelt.

"Witcher," she responded drily.

As before, the queen wore emeralds matching the green of her dress and her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ash-gray hair. But her hands, which he remembered as thin and white, were not as thin as before. Calanthe had put on weight.

"Hail, Calanthe of Cintra."

"I bid you welcome, Geralt of Rivia. Rise. I was waiting. Mousesack, please accompany the girls to the castle."

"At your service, my queen."

They were left alone.

"Six years," Calanthe said without smiling. "You are terribly punctual, witcher."

He made no comment.

"At times, no, for years at a time, I deluded myself that you might forget. Or that for other reasons you might be prevented from coming. No, I didn't want anything unfortunate to happen to you, but I had to take into consideration the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look behind you. Then... when Pavetta... You know already?"

"I know," Geralt said, inclining his head. "My sincere condolences..."

"No," she interrupted, "it was all long ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you see. I wore them for long enough. Pavetta and Duny... were destined for each other to the end. How can I deny the power of destiny?"

They fell silent. Calanthe, with a kick, revived the swing.

"And so it is that the witcher returned after the agreed-upon period," she said slowly. A strange smile bloomed on her lips. "He returned, requiring that the oath be respected. What do you think, Geralt? It's probably in this manner that the storytellers will recount our meeting in a hundred years. With the difference that they will embellish the story, striking a chord and toying with the emotions. Yes, they know their work well. I can imagine it. Listen, if you would:

"And the cruel witcher said at last: 'Respect your oath, Queen, or my curse will be upon you.' The queen, in tears, fell at the feet of the witcher, crying, 'Mercy! Do not take that child from me! He is all I have!'"

"Calanthe..."

"Don't interrupt me, please," she replied drily. "Haven't you noticed that I am telling a story? Listen closer: