Lady of the Lake

  She grabbed her cup from the table, drank it, and then threw it to the floor without hesitation. Then she ran out of the room and slammed the door.

  "This is serious ..." Angouleme began after a moment, but this time the vampire silenced her.

  "The matter is very serious”, he confirmed. "I would not, however, have expected such an extreme reaction from our archer. Such as one typically reacts when they get split up with, not when they do the splitting."

  "What are you talking about, damn it?" asked Geralt, unnerved. "Hey? Would someone mind telling me what this is about?"

  "The Baron Amadis de Trastamara."

  "The pockmarked hunter?"

  "The very same. He made a request of Milva. To join him on a three day hunt. He has invited her again and again for months ...”

  "The hunt" - Angoulême brazenly flashed her teeth - "lasted two days. With overnight accommodations in a little hunting lodge, you know what I mean? I put my hand ...”

  "Be quiet, girl. Tell me, Regis."

  "He has formally and solemnly asked for her hand. Milva has rejected, apparently in fairly strong terms. The Baron, with the reason of youth, took her rejection to heart, was offended, and left Beauclair immediately. Milva has been running around ever since like she was poisoned."

  "We’ve been sitting here too long," muttered the witcher. "Too long."

  "And who says this?" The previously silent Cahir spoke up. "Who says this?"

  "Excuse me." The witcher stood up. "Let’s talk about it when I get back. The steward of the Pomerol estate is expecting me. And punctuality is the courtesy of the witcher."

  After Milva’s stormy departure, and after the witcher had also left, the rest of the company ate breakfast in silence. The two chickens ran around in the kitchen, one black and the other colorful, gently scratching the floor with their clawed feet.

  "I", Angoulême finally broke the silence, as she lifted and passed a plate of toast to Fringilla, “I have got a problem."

  The sorceress nodded. "I understand. It will be okay. How long ago did you have your last menstrual period?"

  "What makes you say that?" Angouleme stiffened with a jerk that startled the chickens. "Nothing like that! It's about something completely different!"

  "So, go on."

  "Geralt wants to leave me here when he sets off again."

  "Whoa."

  "He says”, snorted Angoulême, "that he cannot bring me into danger, or some such nonsense. But I want to go with him ...”

  "Whoa."

  "Don’t interrupt me, okay? I want to go with him, with Geralt, because with him I’m not afraid of being caught by the One-Eyed Fulko again, and here in Toussaint ...”

  "Angouleme," Regis interrupted her. "You are speaking in vain. Miss Vigo will listen to you, but she will do nothing about it. Only one thing you’ve said upsets her: the departure of the witcher."

  "Whoa" repeated Fringilla, turning to face him and narrowing her eyes. "Is that your favorite subject to allude to, Mr. Terzieff-Godefroy? The departure of the witcher? And when is he departing? May I ask that?"

  "Maybe not today or tomorrow," the vampire replied in a soft voice. "But certainly one day. Without hurting anyone."

  "I am not hurt," Fringilla parried coldly. "Assuming, of course, that you had me in mind. But what concerns you, Angoulême, also concerns me. So I assure you that I will discuss the issue of leaving Toussaint with Geralt. I guarantee that the witcher will know my opinion on this matter."

  "Yes, of course you will," snorted Cahir. "How did I know that you would say just that, Miss Fringilla."

  The sorceress looked at him for a long time.

  "The witcher," she finally said, "Should not leave Toussaint. And no one who is well disposed towards him should persuade him to leave. Where could he go that is better than here? He swims in luxury. He has his monsters, which he hunts, earning quite a bit of money. His friend and companion is the favorite of the ruling Princess here, and the Princess herself also values him. Mainly because of the succubus that had plagued the alcoves. Yes, yes, gentlemen. Anarietta and all the well-born ladies of Toussaint are extremely pleased with the

  witcher. Because the succubus has indeed stopped its visits, as if cut off. The ladies of Toussaint have also put together a special bonus that will be deposited into the witcher’s account with the Cianfanelli Bank in the near future. And multiply the small fortune that he already has there."

  "A very nice gesture on the part of the ladies." Regis did not lower his eyes. "And the reward is well deserved. It is not easy to cause a succubus to stop its visits. Trust me, Miss Fringilla."

  "Oh, I believe you. Speaking of which, are you aware that one of the palace guards claims he saw the succubus. At night, on the battlements of the Karoberta Tower. In the company of another ghost. Probably a vampire. Both demons were walking there, swears the guard, and they seemed friendly. Perhaps you know something of it, Mr. Regis? Can you explain it?"

  "No." Regis did not flinch. "I cannot. There are things between the heavens and earth that even philosophers cannot dream of."

  "Undoubtedly, there are such things," Fringilla confirmed with a nod of her black-haired head. "But with regards to the fact that the witcher is supposedly ready to leave - you must know more than me? Because, you see, he has not mentioned any such thing to me, and he usually tells me everything."

  "Sure," muttered Cahir.

  Fringilla ignored him. "Mr. Regis?"

  "No," the vampire said after a short silence. "No, Miss Fringilla, please rest assured. The witcher by no means gives us more affection and confidence than you. He does not whisper any secrets into our ears that he would hide from you."

  "How then" - Fringilla was quiet as granite - "can you make these declarations about his departure?"

  Once again, the vampire did not flinch. "Because it is like the youthful, charm filled expression of our lovely Angoulême says: ‘Eventually, there comes a time when you either have to shit or get off the toilet.’ In other words ...”

  "Don’t bother with the other words," Fringilla interrupted him sharply, "It was charming enough already."

  For a while there was silence. Both chickens, the black and colorful, walked around and pecked at what was left. Angoulême wiped a smudge of red beet from her nose with her sleeve. The vampire played thoughtfully with a sausage link.

  "Thanks to me," Fringilla finally broke the silence, "Geralt has learned what few people know - Ciri’s family tree and the secrets of its origin. Thanks to me, he knows these things that he had no idea about a year ago. Thanks to me he has information, and information is a weapon. Thanks to me and my protection from magical detection, he is protected from the enemy, including assassins. Thanks to me his knee no longer hurts and can bend again. Around his neck, he wears a medallion of my craftsmanship, which might not be as good as his original witcher’s medallion, but nevertheless. Thanks to me and only me, he is ready for the spring and summer - he is informed, fed, healthy, and prepared to fight the enemy. If anyone of you here has done more for Geralt, given more to him, then he should say so. I'll willingly pay him tribute."

  No one spoke up. The chickens pecked at Cahir’s boots, but the young Nilfgaardian ignored them.

  "Indeed," he said pointedly, “none of us has given more to Geralt than you, my lady."

  "How did I know that you would say just that?"

  "It’s not about that, Miss Fringilla", the vampire began. The sorceress did not let him.

  "What’s it about then?" She asked aggressively. "About the fact that he and I are together? About the fact that we have an emotional connection? About the fact that I do not want him to leave now? That I do not want him to decide based on guilt? The same feelings of guilt and atonement that drive you to depart?”

  Regis was silent. Cahir also said nothing. Angouleme looked around; she had obviously not understood much.

  "If it is written in the books of providence", the sorceress said after a while, “that
Geralt will find Ciri, then it will happen. Regardless of whether the witcher sets off into the mountains or sits in Toussaint. Predestination overtakes humans. Not vice versa. Do you understand that? Do you understand, Mr. Regis Terzieff-Godefroy?"

  "Better than you think, Miss Vigo.” The vampire turned the sausage link in his fingers. "However, you must excuse me, I do not accept that predestination is in some book, written by the hand of a great Demiurge, or the will of heaven, or the unalterable judgment of any providence. Rather, it is the result of many seemingly unconnected facts, events, and actions. I tend to agree with you that the predestination overtakes humans...and not only humans. However, I accept much less the view that it could not also be reversed. Because this view is a convenient fatalism. It is a paean to apathy and baseness on a feather bed and the charming warmth of a woman’s womb. In short, to live in a dream. Life, Miss Vigo may be a dream, may end in a dream ... But it's a dream that you must actively dream. Therefore, Miss Vigo, the road awaits us."

  "Go ahead." Fringilla stood up, almost as violent as Milva had recently. "As you wish! Snow, cold, and predetermination await you on the passes. And the atonement that you so urgently seem to need. Go ahead! But the witcher is staying here. In Toussaint! With me!"

  "I believe," the vampire replied calmly, "You are mistaken, Miss Vigo. The dream you dream with the witcher is, I confess with a bow, magical and beautiful. However, any dream that we dream for too long becomes a nightmare. And from it we awake with a scream."

  The nine women who were seated at the large table in Castle Montecalvo stared fixedly at Fringilla Vigo. At Fringilla, who had suddenly begun to stutter.

  "Geralt rode on the morning of January eighth to the Pomerol estate. And he came back ... well ... on the eighth night, or on the ninth morning ... I do not know ... I'm not sure ...”

  "Keep it together" Síle de Tansarville gently requested. "Please, keep it together, Miss Vigo. And if any detail of the story is too embarrassing, then just move on."

  The colorful chicken ran around the kitchen, gently scratching the floor with its clawed feet. It smelled broth.

  The door opened with a bang. Geralt stormed into the kitchen. His windswept face displayed a blue bruise and purplish-black stripes of dried blood.

  "Come on, people, pack up," he announced without any unnecessary preliminaries. "We're leaving! In one hour, and not a moment later, I will see you all on the hill outside the city, where the column stands. With bags and baggage, in the saddle, ready for a long and difficult path."

  That was enough. It was as if they had been waiting for this message and had been ready for a long time.

  "Immediately," Milva cried, jumping up. "I’ll be done in half an hour!"

  "Me too.” Cahir let his spoon fall, stood up, and looked at the witcher carefully. "But I'd like to know what this is. A whim? A lover’s quarrel? Or are we truly leaving?"

  "Really. Angoulême, why are you making that face?"

  "Geralt, I ..."

  "Don’t worry. I'm not leaving you behind. I've changed my mind. But you must be careful, brat; you must not leave my sight. Go on, I said, grab your saddlebags and pack. And individually, in order not to attract attention from the city to the column on the hill. We meet there in one hour."

  "Absolutely, Geralt," exclaimed Angoulême. "Damn, finally!"

  In no time Geralt and the colorful chicken were all that remained in the kitchen. And the vampire, who was quietly stirring his broth with noodles.

  "Are you waiting for a special invitation?" Asked the witcher coldly. "Why are you still sitting here? Instead of packing the mule Draakul? And saying goodbye to the succubus?"

  "Geralt," Regis said calmly, taking a spoonful of soup from the tureen. "It will take me just as long to part with the succubus as it will for you to part with your black-haired girl. Assuming that you intend to say goodbye to her. But just between you and me: you can send the young people out to pack up their things with shouting and noise, but I deserve something more, for reasons of age. Please, grant me a few words of explanation."

  "Regis ..."

  "A statement Geralt. The sooner you start, the better. I'll help you. Yesterday morning, you met the steward of the Pomerol Winery at the city gate as agreed...”

  Alcides Fierabras, the black-bearded steward of the Pomerol Winery, who the witcher had met in the “Pheasantry” on the night before Yule, was waiting at the city gate with a mule; He, however, was dressed and equipped as they were travelling far, far away to the end the world, beyond the Solveiga Gate and the Elskerdeg Pass.

  "It really is not close," he replied to a snappy remark Geralt had made. "You, sir, come from the big wide world and think of our small Toussaint as a little hamlet; you think you could throw a hat from one boundary to the other. But you are wrong. The Pomerol Vineyard, where we indeed want to go, is a good ways away and we can be happy if we are there by lunch."

  "Perhaps," the witcher said dryly, "we shouldn’t have arranged to leave so late."

  "Yeah, maybe." Alcides Fierabras stared at him and blew into his mustache. "But I didn’t know you were one of the early birds. Because that is rare in nobles."

  "I'm not a noble. Let’s be on our way, sir, we needn’t lose any time in idle talk."

  "You took the words right out of my mouth."

  They rode through the city to shorten the path. Geralt initially wanted to protest - he was afraid of getting stuck in the crowded streets known to him. However, the steward Fierabras, as it turned out, knew both the city better and the days when there was no crowding on the streets. They rode easily and quickly.

  They rode into the market and passed the scaffold. And the gallows, decorated by a hanging body.

  "It’s a dangerous thing” - the steward pointed out with a nod – “to forge rhymes and sing ditties. Especially in public."

  "Severe." Geralt instantly recognized what he meant. "In other places, the maximum penalty for libel is the pillory."

  "It depends on whom the libel is about, and if it is true”, said Alcides Fierabras soberly. "And how it was rhymed. Our princess is kind woman and is loved by the people, but if someone provokes her ...”

  "Songs, as one of my friends likes to say, you cannot suffocate."

  "Songs, you cannot suffocate. But the singer, you can suffocate perfectly well."

  They crossed the city and rode out the Cooper’s Gate, straight into the valley of the Blessure River, which cheerfully splashed and foamed in rapids. On the fields, snow lay only in gullies and depressions, but it was quite cold.

  A troop of knights passed them, certainly on their way to Cervantes Pass, to the border fortress of Vedette. The front of their shields and coats were very colorfully painted and embroidered with griffins, lions, hearts, lilies, stars, crosses, and other heraldic nonsense. Their hooves thundered, their banners fluttered, and their powerful voices sung an idiotic song about a thing or two that happens to a knight when he is awarded a bride.

  Geralt followed the party with his eyes. The sight of the knight-errants left him thinking of Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, who had just returned home from the service and was restoring his strength in the arms of his middle-class woman. Her husband, a merchant, hadn’t returned home for days, probably held back by foaming rivers, forests full of wildlife, and other natural forces. The witcher could by no means imagine tearing Reynart from the arms of his mistress, but he honestly regretted that the contract with the Pomerol Winery wasn’t set on a later date. He liked the knight and missed his company.

  "Let's ride, Mr. Witcher."

  "Let's ride, Mr. Fierabras."

  They followed the road up the river. The Blessure River twisted and meandered, but there were plenty of bridges, so they didn’t need to make any detours.

  Steam rose from the nostrils of the horses and the mule.

  "Do you think the winter will last long, Mr. Fierabras?"

  "There was frost on Saovine. And the saying goes: "Frost on Saovine – better put your w
arm pants on.’"

  "I see. And your vines? Doesn’t the cold harm them?"

  "It’s been colder."

  They rode on in silence.

  "Look there," Fierabras pointed. "There in the valley lies the village of Fox Hollow. It’s hard to believe, but their fields grow pots and pans."

  "What?"

  "Pots and pans. They arise from the bosom of the earth, of course, entirely naturally, with no human intervention. Pots and pans grow in Fox Hollow, as potatoes or beets grow elsewhere. All kinds and shapes."

  "Really?"

  "May I drop dead if it's not true. That’s why Fox Hollow established a partnership with the village of Dudno in Maecht. For there, the earth blossoms with lids."

  "All kinds and shapes?"

  "You, Mr. Witcher, hit the mark."

  They rode on. Silently. The Blessure River roared and foamed over the stones.

  "And look there, Mr. Witcher. Those are the ruins of the ancient fortress of Dun Tynne. That castle has witnessed terrible things, if you believe the legend. Waltharius, called the Heavy Handed, tortured and viciously murdered his unfaithful wife, her lover, her mother, her sister, and her brother. And then he sat down and cried, no one knows why ...”

  "I've heard of it."

  "Have you been there then?"

  "No."

  "Ha. The legend has traveled far and wide. "

  "You, Mr. Steward, hit the mark."

  "And there" - the witcher pointed - "the pretty little tower behind the terrible castle? What is that?"

  "That? That is a temple."

  "For what god?"

  "Who remembers a thing like that."

  "Indeed. Who does nowadays."

  Around noon, they saw the winery. It was situated on the slopes of the valley of the Blessure River and covered by evenly cropped vines, now wizened and bald. On the summit of the highest hill, windswept towers rose towards the sky, belonging to the thick and round Castle Pomerol.