Time of Contempt (15 page)

Who will the girl choose?
wondered Dandelion.
Neither of them – the Witcher nor the enchantress – will take a step nor make a gesture. Which will she approach first? Him? Or her?

Ciri did not walk to either of them. She was unable to decide. Instead of moving, she fainted.

The house was empty. The halfling and his entire family had left for work at daybreak. Ciri pretended to be asleep but she heard Geralt and Yennefer go out. She slipped out from the sheets, dressed quickly and stole silently out of the room, following them to the orchard.

Geralt and Yennefer turned to face the causeway between the ponds, which were white and yellow with water lilies. Ciri hid behind a ruined wall and watched them through a crack. She had imagined that Dandelion, the famous poet whose work she had read countless times, was still asleep. But she was wrong. The poet Dandelion wasn’t asleep. And he caught her in the act.

‘Hey,’ he said, coming up unexpectedly and chuckling. ‘Is it polite to eavesdrop and spy on people? More discretion, little one. Let them be together for a while.’

Ciri blushed, but then immediately narrowed her lips.

‘First of all, I’m not your little one,’ she hissed haughtily. ‘And second of all, I’m not really disturbing them, am I?’

Dandelion grew a little serious.

‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘It seems to me you might even be helping them.’

‘How? In what way?’

‘Don’t kid me. That was very cunning yesterday, but you didn’t fool me. You pretended to faint, didn’t you?

‘Yes, I did,’ she muttered, turning her face away. ‘Madam Yennefer realised but Geralt didn’t . . .’

‘They carried you into the house together. Their hands were touching. They sat by your bed almost until morning but they didn’t say a word to each other. They’ve only decided to talk now. There, on the causeway, by the pond. And you’ve decided to eavesdrop on what they’re saying . . . And watch them through a hole in the wall. Are you so desperate to know what they’re doing there?’

‘They aren’t doing anything there,’ said Ciri, blushing slightly. ‘They’re talking a little, that’s all.’

‘And you,’ said Dandelion, sitting down on the grass under an apple tree and leaning back against the trunk, having first checked whether there were any ants or caterpillars on it. ‘You’d like to know what they’re talking about, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes . . . No! And anyway . . . Anyway, I can’t hear anything. They’re too far away.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ laughed the bard. ‘If you want.’

‘And how are you supposed to know?’

‘Ha, ha. I, my dear Ciri, am a poet. Poets know everything about things like this. I’ll tell you something else; poets know more about this sort of thing than the people involved do.’

‘Of course you do!’

‘I give you my word. The word of a poet.’

‘Really? Well then . . . Tell me what they’re talking about? Tell me what it all means!’

‘Look through that hole again and tell me what they’re doing.’

‘Hmm . . .’ Ciri bit her lower lip, then leaned over and put her eye closer to the hole. ‘Madam Yennefer is standing by a willow . . . She’s plucking leaves and playing with her star. She isn’t saying anything and isn’t even looking at Geralt . . . And Geralt’s standing beside her. He’s looking down and he’s saying something. No, he isn’t. Oh, he’s pulling a face . . . What a strange expression . . .’

‘Childishly simple,’ said Dandelion, finding an apple in the grass, wiping it on his trousers and examining it critically. ‘He’s asking her to forgive him for his various foolish words and deeds. He’s apologising to her for his impatience, for his lack of faith and hope, for his obstinacy, doggedness. For his sulking and posing; which are unworthy of a man. He’s apologising to her for things he didn’t understand and for things he hadn’t wanted to understand—’

‘That’s the falsest lie!’ said Ciri, straightening up and tossing the fringe away from her forehead with a sudden movement. ‘You’re making it all up!’

‘He’s apologising for things he’s only now understood,’ said Dandelion, staring at the sky, and he began to speak with the rhythm of a balladeer. ‘For what he’d like to understand, but is afraid he won’t have time for . . . And for what he will never understand. He’s apologising and asking for forgiveness . . . Hmm, hmm . . . Meaning, conscience, destiny? Everything’s so bloody banal . . .’

‘That’s not true!’ Ciri stamped. ‘Geralt isn’t saying anything like that! He’s not even speaking. I saw for myself. He’s standing with her and saying nothing . . .’

‘That’s the role of poetry, Ciri. To say what others cannot utter.’

‘It’s a stupid role. And you’re making everything up!’

‘That is also the role of poetry. Hey, I hear some raised voices coming from the pond. Have a quick look, and see what’s happening there.’

‘Geralt,’ said Ciri, putting her eye once more to the hole in the wall, ‘is standing with his head bowed. And Yennefer’s yelling at him. She’s screaming and waving her arms. Oh dear . . . What can it mean?’

‘It’s childishly simple.’ Dandelion stared at the clouds scudding across the sky. ‘Now she’s saying sorry to him.’

CHAPTER THREE

Thus do I take you, to have and to hold, for the most wondrous and terrible of times, for the best and the worst of times, by day and by night, in sickness and in health. For I love you with all my heart and swear to love you eternally, until death do us part.

Traditional marriage vows

We know little about love. Love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear.

Dandelion,
Half a Century of Poetry

Geralt had reason to suspect – and had long suspected – that sorcerers’ banquets differed from the feasts of ordinary mortals. He never suspected, however, that the differences could be so great or so fundamental.

The offer of accompanying Yennefer to the banquet preceding the sorcerers’ conclave surprised but did not dumbfound him, since it was not the first such proposal. Previously, when they lived together and things were good between them, Yennefer had wanted to attend assemblies and conclaves with him at her side. At that time, he steadfastly refused. He was convinced he would be treated by the sorcerers at best as a freak and a spectacle, and at worst as an intruder and a pariah. Yennefer scoffed at his fears, but had never insisted. Since in other situations she was capable of insisting until the house shook and windows shattered, that had confirmed Geralt’s belief that his decision had been right.

This time he agreed. Without a second thought. The offer came after a long, frank and emotional conversation. After a conversation which had brought them closer again, consigned the old conflicts to the shadows and to oblivion, and melted the ice of resentment, pride and stubbornness. After their conversation on the causeway in Hirundum, Geralt would have agreed to any – absolutely any – proposition of Yennefer’s. He would not even have declined had she suggested they walked into hell to drink a cup of boiling tar with some fiery demons.

And on top of it there was Ciri, without whom neither that conversation nor that meeting could have happened. Ciri, in whom – according to Codringher – some unknown sorcerer had taken an interest. Geralt expected his presence at the convocation to provoke that sorcerer and force his hand. But he didn’t tell Yennefer a single word about it.

They rode straight from Hirundum to Thanedd: Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri and Dandelion. First they stopped at the immense palace complex of Loxia, at the south-eastern foot of the mountain. The palace was already teeming with delegates to the conclave and their companions but accommodation was immediately found for Yennefer. They spent the entire day in Loxia. Geralt whiled away the day talking to Ciri. Dandelion ran around collecting and spreading gossip, and the enchantress measured and chose clothes. When evening finally came, the Witcher and Yennefer joined the colourful procession heading towards Aretuza and the palace, where the banquet was due to take place. And now, in Aretuza, Geralt knew surprise and astonishment, even though he’d vowed to himself he wouldn’t be surprised by anything and nothing would astonish him.

The palace’s huge central hall had been constructed in the shape of a letter ‘T’. The long side had narrow and extremely tall windows, reaching almost to the tops of the columns that supported the ceiling. The ceiling was so high it was difficult to make out the details of the frescoes decorating it, in particular the gender of the naked figures, which were their most common motif. The windows were of stained glass, which must have cost an absolute fortune, but in spite of that a draught could be felt distinctly in the hall. Geralt was initially surprised the candles didn’t go out, but on closer inspection he understood why. The candelabras were magical, and possibly even illusory. In any case, they gave plenty of light, incomparably more than candles would have.

When they entered, a good hundred people were already there. The hall, the Witcher estimated, could have held at least three times as many, even if the tables had been arranged in a semicircle in the centre, as was customary. But there was no traditional semicircle. It appeared they would be banqueting standing up, doggedly wandering along walls adorned with tapestries, garlands and pennants, all waving in the draught. Rows of long tables had been arranged under the tapestries and garlands, and the tables were piled high with elaborate dishes served on even more elaborate table settings, among elaborate flower arrangements and extraordinary ice carvings. On closer examination, Geralt noted there was considerably more elaboration than food.

‘There’s no fare,’ he stated in a glum voice, smoothing down the short, black, silver-braided, narrow-waisted tunic Yennefer had dressed him in. Tunics like that – the latest fashion – were called doublets. The Witcher had no idea where the name came from. And no desire to find out.

Yennefer didn’t react. Geralt wasn’t expecting her to, knowing well that the enchantress was not generally inclined to react to statements of that kind. But he didn’t give up. He continued to complain. He simply felt like moaning.

‘There’s no music. It’s draughty as hell. There’s nowhere to sit down. Are we going to eat and drink standing up?’

The enchantress gave him a meaningful, violet glance.

‘Indeed,’ she said, surprisingly calmly. ‘We shall be eating standing up. You should also know that stopping too long by the food table is considered an indiscretion.’

‘I shall try to behave,’ he muttered. ‘Particularly since I observe there isn’t much to stop by.’

‘Drinking in an unrestrained way is also considered a breach of etiquette,’ said Yennefer, continuing her instructions and paying absolutely no attention to his grizzling. ‘Avoiding conversations is considered an inexcusable indiscretion—’

‘And if that beanpole in those ridiculous pantaloons points me out to his two girlfriends,’ he interrupted, ‘is that considered a faux pas?’

‘Yes. But a minor one.’

‘What are we going to be doing, Yen?’

‘Circulating around the hall, greeting people, paying them compliments, engaging in conversation . . . Stop tugging your doublet and flattening your hair.’

‘You wouldn’t let me wear a headband . . .’

‘Your headband’s pretentious. Well then, take my arm and let’s go. Standing near the entrance is considered a faux pas.’

They wandered through the hall, which was gradually filling up with guests. Geralt was ravenously hungry but quickly realised Yennefer hadn’t been joking. It became clear that the etiquette observed by mages did indeed demand that one eat and drink very little, and do it with a nonchalant air. To cap it all, every stop at the food table carried with it social obligations. Someone would notice you, express their joy at the fact and then approach and offer their greetings, which were as effusive as they were disingenuous. After the compulsory air kisses or unpleasantly weak handshakes, after the insincere smiles and even less sincere, although well-concocted, compliments, followed a brief and tediously banal conversation about nothing.

The Witcher looked around eagerly, searching for familiar faces, mainly in the hope he wasn’t the only person present who didn’t belong to this magical fraternity. Yennefer had assured him he wouldn’t be, but in spite of that he couldn’t see anyone who wasn’t a member of the Brotherhood, or at least he was unable to recognise anyone.

Pageboys carrying trays weaved among the guests, serving wine. Yennefer didn’t drink at all. The Witcher wanted to get tight, but couldn’t. Instead, he found his doublet was. Under the arms.

Skilfully steering Geralt with her arm, the enchantress pulled him away from the table and led him into the middle of the hall, to the very centre of general interest. His resistance counted for nothing. He realised what this was all about. It was quite simply a display.

Geralt knew what to expect, so with stoical calm he endured the glances of the enchantresses, brimming with insalubrious curiosity, and the enigmatic smirks of the sorcerers. Although Yennefer assured him that propriety and tact forbade the use of magic at this kind of event, he didn’t believe the mages were capable of restraining themselves, particularly since Yennefer was provocatively thrusting him into the limelight. And he was right not to believe. He felt his medallion vibrating several times, and the pricking of magical impulses. Some sorcerers, or more precisely some enchantresses, brazenly tried to read his thoughts. He was prepared for that, knew what was happening, and knew how to respond. He looked at Yennefer walking alongside him, at white-and-black-and-diamond Yennefer, with her raven hair and violet eyes, and the sorcerers trying to sound him out became unsettled and disorientated; confronted with his blissful satisfaction, they were clearly losing their composure and poise.
Yes
, he answered in his thoughts,
you’re not mistaken. There is only she, Yennefer, at my side, here and now, and only she matters. Here and now. And what she was long ago, where she was long ago and who she was with long ago doesn’t have any, doesn’t have the slightest, importance. Now she’s with me, here, among you all. With me, with no one else. That’s what I’m thinking right now, thinking only about her, thinking endlessly about her, smelling the scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body. And you can all choke on your envy.