Lady of the Lake

  ‘Put it out! Houvenaghel screamed wildly, seeing the fire spread to the brewery and granary. ‘Men! Get buckets for the water!’

  There was no shortage of volunteers. Claremont even had its own fire department, equipped and maintained by Houvenaghel. They did everything in their power to put out the fire. But it was useless.

  ‘We cannot handle it,’ the fire brigade commander groaned, rubbing his soot smeared face. ‘This is no ordinary fire... It is a fire from hell.’

  ‘Black magic...’ coughed another fireman.

  From the burning building they head an ominous creaking and the sound of rafters and beams cracking. There was a thunderous rumble and sparks and flames shot high into the sky. The roof broke and fell into the arena. The whole building bent as if bowing to an audience. Then the walls collapsed.

  With effort the fire-fighters and volunteers managed to save part of the granary and about a quarter of the brewery.

  Dawn came smelly and pungent.

  Houvenaghel sat in the mud and ashes, his nightcap and gown sooty and dirty. He cried bitterly, pouting like a child. Naturally he had insured the theatre, the brewery and the granary. The problem was that the insurance company was owned by Houvenaghel. Nothing, not even tax fraud, could compensate for his losses.

  ‘Now where?’ Geralt asked, looking at the column of smoke that clouded the rosy morning sky. ‘Where else do you want to visit, Ciri?’

  She looked at him and he soon regretted asking. Suddenly he wanted to hug her, he dreamed of holding her in his arms, cuddling her and caressing her hair. To protect her. And never allow her to be alone. To not suffer any more evil. And that nothing would happen to her that would make him crave revenge.

  Yennefer was silent. Yennefer was often silent lately.

  ‘Now,’ Ciri said quietly, ‘we go to a village call Unicorn. The name comes from the straw unicorn that protects the town. A poor and ridiculous puppet. I would like that, as a reminder of what happened there, the inhabitants have... if not valuable, at least a more dignified idol. I would like to ask for your help, Yennefer, because without magic...’

  ‘Sure, Ciri. What next?’

  ‘The Pereplut Swamps. I am confident that I will be able to... find a cabin in the middle of the swamp. I will find the remains of a man. I want those remains to rest in a decent tomb.’

  Geralt said nothing. But didn’t look away.

  ‘After,’ continued Ciri, without the slightest difficulty withstanding his look, ‘the village of Dun Dare. The local tavern has probably been burned and it is possible that the innkeeper has been murdered. It is my fault; I was blinded by hatred and revenge. If he had a family, I’ll try and make it up to the survivors.’

  ‘You cannot make it up,’ Geralt said, still looking at her.

  ‘I know,’ she said sharply, almost angrily. ‘But I will stand in front of them with humility. I will remember the look in their eyes. I hope that the memory of those eyes will protect me from similar mistakes. Do you understand, Geralt?’

  ‘I understand, Ciri,’ Yennefer said. ‘Both of us, we understand you very well, my dear. Let’s go.’

  The horses ran as if carried by the wind of a magic storm. Alarmed by the trio of riders, a pilgrim on the road lifted his head. A merchant with a wagonload of goods, a felon fleeing the law, a settler who had been thrown out of his land. A bum looked up, a deserter and a wander with a staff. They raised their heads, astonished and frightened. Not believing their eyes.

  In Geso in Ebbing, stories began to circulate. About the Wild Hunt. About three ghostly riders. Rumors were invented and spun in the evenings, in smoky pubs that smelled of fried onions and butter and in meeting rooms and huts. Rumors were invented, told and exaggerated. A great war of heroism and chivalry, of honor and friendship as well as meaningless treachery. With sincere and faithful love, which always wins out in the end, about crime and punishment of criminals that are always struck by justice.

  The truth, as always rises up, like oil on water.

  They invented lies and enjoyed these fables. They reveled in pure fantasy. Because out in the real world, everything worked out the opposite.

  The legend grew. People listened as if in a trance, captivated by the emphatic words of the storyteller who told the story of the witcher and the sorceress. The story of the Tower of the Swallow. Of Ciri, the witcheress with the scarred face. Of Kelpie, the magical black mare. Of the Lady of the Lake. That came many years later.

  But for now, like a seed soaked by rain, the legend sprouted and grew among the people.

  They did not realize when May came. They first noticed at night time, when they saw the bright, distance fires of Belleteyn. When Ciri, with strange excitement jumped onto Kelpie’s back and galloped towards the fires, Geralt and Yennefer took advantage of the intimate moment.

  After removing the necessary clothes, they made love on a sheepskin on the ground. They made love urgently, in silence, without words. They made love quickly, however.

  And then along came the climax and fulfillment, trembling and kissing each other’s tears, amazed at that fate had given them time to express their love.

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘I’m listening, Yen.’

  ‘When we... When we were not together, where you with other women?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not once?’

  ‘Not once.’

  ‘Your voice did not tremble. So I do not know why I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I am only for you, Yen.’

  ‘Now I do.’

  Without realizing it, May had arrived. Dandelions grew in the meadows and the trees were white and fluffy and thick with flowers. The oak, too noble to rush, remained dark, but on the edges, green leaves were beginning to show.

  One night they spent under the open sky, they witcher awakened from a nightmare. It seemed as if he was paralyzed and helpless, a great grey owl was clawing at his face and with its sharp hooked beak, trying to peck his eyes out. He awoke. But he was not sure if he had moved from one nightmare to another.

  Over their encampment poured bright light that startled the horses. In the midst of the brightness a room was visible – a columned hall in a castle. Around a table sat ten figures. Ten women.

  He could hear words. Snippets of sentences.

  ‘...Bring her to us, Yennefer. We command you.’

  ‘You cannot give me orders. You cannot give orders to her. You don’t have any power over her!’

  ‘I’m not afraid of them, mother. They cannot do anything. If they wish, I will stand before them.

  ‘We will meet on June first. At the new moon. We command you both to appear. We warn you, we’ll punish any disobedience.’

  ‘I will come now, Philippa. Let her stay with him. Don’t leave him alone. Just a couple of days. I will come immediately. As a show of good faith. I have vowed, Philippa. Please.’

  The light began to throb. The horses snorted , crazed and kicked at the ground.

  The witcher awoke. This time for real.

  The next day Yennefer confirmed his fears. After a long meeting, which they excluded Ciri from.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she said dryly. ‘I have to. Ciri will stay with you. For a time. Then it will come time for her to leave as well. And then we’ll all meet again.’

  Ne nodded. Reluctantly. He’d had enough of nodding silently, agreeing with every decision. But he nodded. One way or another, he loved her.

  ‘It is imperative,’ she said mildly, ‘that you not resist. Nor can you postpone it. It is necessary to comply. I’m doing this for your own good. And especially for the good of Ciri.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Until we meet again,’ she said almost tenderly, ‘I’ll make it up to you, Geralt. There has been too much silence between us. Now instead of nodding, give me a hug and kiss.’

  He obeyed. One way or another, he loved her.

  ‘Now where?’ Ciri asked, she had barely spoken since Yennefer had disappeared with a fl
ash through her portal.

  ‘The river...’ Geralt coughed, conquering the pain under his breast bone. ‘The river in front of us is called the Sansretour. We are going upstream. To a place that I want to show you. It is a land of fairytales.’

  Ciri frowned. Her saw her clench her fists.

  ‘All fairytales,’ she said, end badly. There does not exist a fairytale land.’

  ‘There does. You’ll see.’

  It was the day after the full moon, when they saw Toussaint, bathed in green and the sunlight. When they saw the hills, slopes and vineyards. The roofs of towers and castles, shining in the morning sun.

  The view did not disappoint. It was impressive. As it always was.

  ‘This is beautiful,’ Ciri said with delight. ‘Wow! Those castles are like toys... Like glazed decorations on a cake3... It is tempting to lick!’

  ‘The architecture is by Faramond,’ Geralt wisely instructed. ‘Wait until you seen up close the palaces and gardens of Beauclair.’

  ‘Palace? We’re going to the palace? You know the local king?’

  ‘Duchess.’

  ‘The Duchess,’ she said wryly, watching him intently from beneath her fringe, ‘doesn’t have green eyes? Short black hair?’

  ‘No,’ he snapped, looking away. ‘She look completely different. I don’t know where you got that idea...’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it Geralt, all right? How do you know the local Duchess?’

  ‘As I said, I know her. A little bit. Not very well, if you’re interested. But, I know the local prince consort or candidate for consort. You also know him, Ciri.’

  Ciri kicked Kelpie in the sides, making her dance in the road.

  ‘Don’t make me suffer!’

  ‘Dandelion.’

  Dandelion? With the Duchess? How is that possible?’

  ‘It’s a long story. We left him here, alongside his beloved. We promised him to visit on our return visit, when...’

  He paused and became serious.

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ Ciri said quietly. ‘Do not torture yourself, Geralt. It’s not your fault.’

  Yes it is my fault, he thought. Mine. Dandelion will ask. And I’ll have to answer. Milva. Cahir. Regis. Angouleme.

  The sword of destiny cuts both ways.

  By all the gods, that’s enough. Enough. We must end this once and for all!

  ‘Come on, Ciri.’

  ‘In these clothes?’ she said. ‘To the palace?’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with our clothes,’ he interrupted. ‘We are not going to a ball. We can meet Dandelion in the stables.’ He saw the look on her face and quickly added. ‘I have to go down to the bank. I’ll pick up some cash. In the squares and streets you’ll find a lot of tailors and dressmakers. You can buy what you want and dress up how you please.’

  ‘Good,’ she playfully cocked her head. ‘You’ve got cash?’

  ‘You can buy yourself whatever you want,’ he repeated. ‘Even ermine. And basilisk shoes. I know a shoemaker, who should have some in stock.’

  ‘How did you make so much money?’

  ‘By killing. Let’s go, Ciri, let’s not waste time.’

  In the bank of Cianfanelli, Geralt requested a transfer, credit allocation and took some money. He wrote letters that were given to fast couriers that were riding for the Yaruga. He politely excused himself from the dinner invitation from the attentive and polite banker.

  Ciri waited in the street watching the horses. The street, which was empty a moment ago, was now swarming with people.

  ‘I think today is a holiday,’ Ciri nodded with her head towards the square where the crowd was heading. ‘Or a fair...’

  Geralt took a quick look.

  ‘That’s not a fair.’

  ‘Ah...’ Ciri stood up in her stirrups and looked around. ‘So it’s...’

  ‘A execution,’ he confirmed. ‘The most popular post-war entertainment. What are the reasons, Ciri?’

  ‘For desertion, treason, cowardice before the enemy,’ she recited fluently. ‘And for economic crimes.’

  ‘Supplying the army with moldy biscuits,’ said the witcher. ‘During the war, an enterprising merchant can easily get into trouble.’

  ‘This does not look like the execution of a huckster,’ Ciri pulled on Kelpie’s reins, submerging herself in the middle of the crowd, ‘Look, the scaffolding is covered with cloth and the executioner has a new, clean hood. He is executing someone important, perhaps a noble. So it could be cowardice in the face of the enemy...’

  ‘Toussaint,’ Geralt shook his head, ‘did not have an army that faced the enemy. No, Ciri, I guess this has to do with the economy. The condemned is probably guilty of some scam in a wine shop and damaged the foundation for the local economy. Let’s go, Ciri. We don’t need to watch this spectacle.’

  ‘How do you expect me to move?’

  Indeed, it was impossible to keep riding. They had become stuck in the crowd gathering in the square, and were unable to make their way to the other side of the market.

  Geralt looked back and swore. He discovered that they could not even turn around, people clogged the streets behind them. The crowd carried them like a river, but stopped in front of a solid wall of halberds standing around the gallows.

  ‘Here they come!’ someone shouted and the crowd surged like a waved, picking up the cry. ‘Here they come!’

  The pounding of hooves and the rattle of a cart were fully covered by the buzz of the crowd, which sounded like the hum of bumblebees. So they were caught completely by

  surprise by the appearance of a cart from an ally, drawn by two horses. On the cart, trying to maintain his balance with difficult was...

  ‘Dandelion...’ Ciri groaned.

  Geralt suddenly felt ill. Very ill.

  ‘It’s Dandelion,’ Ciri said uneasily. ‘It’s him.’

  This is an injustice, thought the witcher. A damn injustice. This cannot be. This should not be. I know I was stupid and naive to believe that after all I had endured and experienced that destiny owed me. It was not only stupid, but egocentric. But I am aware, there is no need for destiny to persuade me. To prove it to me. Especially in this way. This is an injustice.

  ‘It cannot be Dandelion,’ he said flatly, staring at Roach’s mane.

  ‘It’s him,’ she said again. ‘Geralt, we have to do something.’

  ‘What,’ he asked bitterly. ‘Tell me what?’

  The guard driving the cart treated Dandelion fairly, with surprising civility, without brutality, even differentially, as much as they could afford. At the foot of the steps to the gallows, they untied his hands. The poet nonchalantly scratched his ass and without hesitation began to climb the steps.

  One of the steps creaked suddenly and began to sag. Dandelion barely managed to keep his balance.

  ‘Damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘This needs to be fixed! You’ll end up killing someone with these stairs! That would be a disaster!’

  Once Dandelion reached the gallows, two of the executioners henchmen in leather vests grabbed him. The executioner, a hulk with arms as wide as the bastions of a castle, watched the condemned through the slits cut in his hood. Nearby stood a man in rich, thought mournful black clothing. He face was no less mournful.

  ‘Citizens of Beauclair and people from the surrounding countryside,’ he read in a troubled voice from parchment. ‘Notice is hereby given that Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, aka Dandelion...’

  ‘Pankratz what?’ Ciri asked in a whisper.

  ‘...according to the Supreme Court ruling of this County has been found guilty of all crimes, offenses and misdeed of which he was accused, insulting Her Majesty, treason of the state and dishonoring the establishment of the nobility through perjury, libel, and slander, also for dissipation and indecency, furthermore, obscenity and whoredom. The Tribunal had decided that Viscount Julian et cetera, et cetera, his receive the following punishment – First, mortification of his coat of arms,
a thick black line through his shield. Second, confiscation of all his property, both movable and immovable, including lands, forests, castles and palaces...’

  ‘Castles and palaces?’ said the astonished witcher. ‘What?’

  Dandelion snickered, making it blatantly clear what he thought of the judicial decree.

  ‘Third, the maximum penalty... our ladyship Anna Henrietta, Duchess of Toussaint and Castilian of Beauclair, has kindly switched the penalty for the above crimes, namely being dragged by horses and dismemberment, by substituting it for decapitation by the axe. Let justice be done!’

  From the crowd came a few incoherent cries. Women standing in the first row pretended to weep and lament. Adults lifted children in their arms or put them on their shoulders, that even the smallest child would not miss the upcoming spectacle. The executions assistants rolled a stump into the center of the scaffold covered with cloth. There was much excitement when someone swiped the wicker basket designed to collect the severed head, but another was soon found.

  At the foot of the scaffold four ragged urchins held out a scarf to collect the blood in. There was a great demand for this type of souvenirs, and good money could be earned.

  ‘Geralt,’ Ciri said in a low voice. ‘We have to so do something...’

  He did not answer.

  ‘I wish to speak to the people,’ Dandelion said proudly.

  ‘Keep it short, Viscount.’

  The poet walked to the edge of the scaffold and raised his arms. The crowd began to murmur and grew still.

  ‘Hey, folks’ Dandelion called. ‘What’s new? How are you?’

  ‘Well,’ someone from the crowd said after a moment.

  ‘I’m glad,’ nodded the poet. ‘In that case we can begin.’

  ‘Master Executioner,’ the bailiff said pathetically. ‘Do your duty!’

  The executioner approached, and according to ancient custom, knelt and bowed his head hooded head to the condemned.

  ‘Forgive me, my good man,’ he said gloomily.