Sword of Destiny

  ‘Once there was… a cat,’ he began. ‘An ordinary cat, with stripes, who was hunting mice. One day, the cat went alone on a long walk through a dark, terrible forest. He walked and walked and walked…’

  ‘Don't think that I'll fall asleep before he arrives,’ she murmured, pressing against him.’

  ‘Quiet, little pest. He walks and walks and meets a fox. A red fox.’

  Braenn sighed, lying down on the other side of the witcher. She hugged him too, gently.

  ‘And then?’ Ciri sniffed. ‘Tell the rest.’

  ‘The fox looks at the cat. He asks: 'Who are you?' The cat replies: 'I am a cat.' The fox retorts: 'Ah! And you are not afraid, you cat, to walk alone in the forest? What if the king decides to go hunting? What will you do with the dogs and hunters on their horses? I tell you, cat, the hunt is a terrible thing for the likes of you and I. You have a fur coat, I have one too. The hunters are without pity for us, because they have fiancees and mistresses whose hands and necks shiver: they turn us into stoles and muffs for those whores.’

  ‘What are those, muffs?’ asked Ciri.

  ‘Don't interrupt my story.

  ‘The fox then continues: 'I, dear cat, know how to escape them. I have a thousand and two hundred eighty-six methods: I am cunning. And you, dear cat, how many tricks do you possess against the hunters?’

  ‘Oh! What a pretty story,’ Ciri enthused, snuggling even closer against the witcher. ‘Tell me… How did the cat respond?’

  ‘Yes,’ Braenn murmured from the other side. ‘How did he respond?’

  The witcher turned his head. The dryad's eyes sparkled. Her tongue was slightly parting her lips. Evidently, he thought, young dryads are fond of stories. Just like young witchers: they are rarely told fictional stories. Young dryads fall asleep to the rustling trees; young witchers to the ache of their muscles. Our eyes shone, like Braenn's, when we listened to Vesemir's stories, there at Kaer Morhen. It was a long time ago… so long…

  ‘And then?’ Ciri prompted impatiently. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘The cat replies: 'I, dear fox, do not have multiple ways, but only one: Hop! I climb up a tree. This should be sufficient, I believe?' The fox smiles: 'Well then! Dear cat, you're nothing but a fool. Turn tail and run from here, because you will perish if the hunters track you.'

  ‘Suddenly, without warning, with neither transition nor delay, the hunters emerge from the bushes: on top of the cat and the fox!’

  ‘Oh!’ Ciri whimpered.

  The dryad shook violently.

  ‘Quiet!’

  ‘They throw themselves upon them then, shouting: 'Forward! Skin their hides! For the muffs, the muffs!' They unleash the dogs upon the cat and the fox. And the cat, hop! climbs up the tree as cats do. Right to the top. And the dogs, snap! seize the fox. Even before the red-furred one could make use of one of his cunning routes, he was transformed into a lady's stole. The cat meows from the top of the tree, defying the hunters. They cannot reach him, because the tree is too high. They wait at the bottom, swearing against the gods of the earth, but leave empty-handed. The cat then descends the tree and goes quietly home.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing. The story is over.’

  ‘And the moral? Stories always have a moral, don't they?’

  ‘What?’ Braenn asked, shaking harder against Geralt. ‘What is that, a moral?’

  ‘Good stories always have a moral, bad ones don't,’ confirmed Ciri, sure of herself.

  ‘That one was good,’ the dryad retorted. ‘Each received what he deserved. We must climb up to the top of the tree from the yghern, sickly little one, like the proud feline. Without hesitation: the top of the tree, at once, and wait with wisdom. Survive. Without resignation.’

  Geralt chuckled.

  ‘Weren't there any trees in the grounds of Castle Nastrog, Ciri? Instead of coming to Brokilone, you could have climbed to the top and waited for Kistrin to lose interest in the wedding.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, I can't stand you.’

  ‘That's awful, Ciri, you've touched me right in the heart.’

  ‘I know,’ she nodded, sniffing, and then pressed close against him.

  ‘Sleep well, Ciri,’ he murmured, breathing in the pleasant smell of feathers. ‘Sleep well. Good night, Braenn.’

  ‘Deárme, Gwynbleidd.’

  IV

  The next day, they reached the Trees. Braenn knelt and bowed. Geralt sensed that he should do the same. Ciri sighed in admiration.

  The Trees, primarily oak, yew, and white walnut, were a dozen yards across. It was hardly possible to estimate the height of their peaks. The place where their powerful, sinuous roots transformed into a single trunk was located very high above their heads. They could move much faster: the colossi left plenty of space, and other vegetation, in their shadow, could not survive. Only a bed of rotten leaves remained.

  They could move faster, but they walked slowly. In silence. Bowing their heads. They were, among the Trees, miniscule, insignificant, trivial. Negligible. Even Ciri kept quiet. She didn't say a word for nearly half an hour.

  They left the perimeter of the Trees after a hour of walking, to again sink into the ravines and damp beech forests.

  Ciri's cold was getting worse and worse. Geralt, who had no handkerchiefs, and who was tired of hearing the constant sniffling, taught her to blow her nose in her fingers. This pleased the little girl enormously. From her smile and her sparkling eyes, the witcher knew that she was delighted by the idea of being able to show that trick to the court during a banquet or an audience with an overseas ambassador.

  Braenn stopped suddenly and turned.

  ‘Gwynbleidd,’ she said, pulling her green scarf down around her neck, ‘come. I need to cover your eyes. I must.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I will guide you. Give me your hand.’

  ‘No,’ Ciri protested, ‘I'll guide him. Okay, Braenn?’

  ‘All right, sickly little one.’

  ‘Geralt?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What does that mean, Gwyn… bleidd?’

  ‘White Wolf. That's what the dryads call me.’

  ‘Careful, a root. Take care not to trip. They call you that because you have white hair?’

  ‘Yes… oh! Damn!’

  ‘I told you there was a root.’

  They continued to walk. Slowly. The leaves on the ground were slippery. Geralt was feeling a warmth on his face. The sun's glow filtered through the cloth that covered his eyes.

  He heard Ciri's voice:

  ‘Oh! Geralt. How beautiful it is here… It's a shame you can't see it all. There are so many flowers. And birds. You hear them singing? Oh! There are so many! Such numbers. And then the squirrels… Careful, we're going to cross a stream on a path of stones. Don't fall into the water. What fish! There are so many. They swim in the water, you know! There are so many animals. Nowhere else are there so many…’

  ‘Nowhere,’ he muttered, ‘nowhere. We have arrived in Brokilone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brokilone. The end of our journey.’

  ‘I don't understand…’

  ‘No-one understands. No-one wants to understand.’

  V

  ‘Take off your blindfold, Gwynbleidd. We've arrived.’

  A thick fog engulfed Braenn up to the knee.

  ‘Duén Canell, the place of the Oak. The heart of Brokilone.’

  Geralt had already been here before. Twice. But he had never told anyone. No-one would have believed him.

  There was a sinkhole entirely covered by the tops of immense green trees, bathed in the fog and vapor emanating from the earth, the rocks, the hot springs. A sinkhole…

  The medallion that he wore around his neck vibrated gently.

  A sinkhole flooded with magic. Duén Canell. The heart of Brokilone. Braenn lifted her head and gave a shrug of her quiver.

  ‘Come, giv
e me your hand, sickly little one.’

  At first, the sinkhole appeared dead and abandoned. But not for long. A strong and melodic whistle was heard. A slender dryad with dark hair descended gracefully, walking along a barely visible spiral of polypore fungus that embraced the trunk of a nearby tree. She was dressed like the others in a camouflaged garment.

  ‘Ceád, Braenn.’

  ‘Ceád, Sirssa. Va 'n vort meáth Eithné á?’

  ‘Neén, aefder,’ replied the dark-haired one, casting a languid glance at the witcher. ‘Ess' ae'n Sidh?’

  Particularly attractive, even by human standards, she laughed, showing her shining white teeth. Geralt, aware that the dryad was looking him over from head to toe, lost his composure and felt foolish.

  ‘Néen.’ Braenn turned her head. ‘Ess' vatt'ghern, Gwynnbleidd, á váen meáth Eithné va, a'ss.’

  ‘Gwynbleidd?’ The lovely dryad pursed her lips. ‘Bloede caèrm! Aen'ne caen n'wedd vort! T'ess foile!’

  Braenn chuckled.

  ‘What's going on?’ asked the witcher, annoyed.

  ‘Nothing,’ Braenn chuckled again. ‘Nothing. Come on.’

  ‘Oh! Look!’ Ciri marveled. ‘Look, Geralt, at all these houses, how funny they are!’

  Duén Canell really began at the bottom of the sinkhole. The ‘funny houses,’ whose forms resembled large balls of mistletoe, were hung from the branches and trunks of trees at various heights, just above the ground or higher, and even at the peaks. Geralt also saw some larger constructions on the ground: the huts made of woven branches and covered with leaves. He sensed the presence of life behind the openings of these constructions, but the dryads remained invisible. They would be far fewer in number than on his previous visit.

  ‘Geralt,’ Ciri murmured. ‘These houses are growing! They have leaves.’

  ‘They are made of living trees,’ explained the witcher. ‘That's the way the dryads live, and that's how they construct their homes. A dryad never hurts a tree by cutting or sawing. They know nevertheless how to grow the branches to form shelters.’

  ‘How cute. I'd love to have a house like this in our park.’

  Braenn stopped in front of one of the largest constructions.

  ‘Inside, Gwynbleidd, is where you will meet Madame Eithné. Vá fáill, sickly little one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It is a farewell, Ciri. She's saying goodbye.’

  ‘Ah! Goodbye, Braenn.’

  They entered. Inside the ‘house’ sparkled a kaleidoscope of sunbeams, filtered and screened by the frame.

  ‘Geralt!’

  ‘Freixenet!’

  ‘But you live! By all the devils!’

  The wounded man beamed. Frexenet raised himself on his bed of fir. He saw Ciri clinging to the witcher's thigh. His eyes shone in their sockets; he flushed crimson.

  ‘So there you are, little pest! I came within a hair of losing my life because of you! Ah! You're lucky that I can't get up, because I would already have you firmly spanked!’

  Ciri pouted.

  ‘That's the second one who wants to beat me,’ she replied, comically wrinkling her nose. ‘I'm a young girl… Young girls don't get smacked! It's not allowed.’

  ‘I will show you what's allowed,’ Freixenet responded, coughing, ‘filthy little scab! Ervyll has lost his mind… Every message more terrified than the last, he says that your grandmother has set her army on him. Who would believe that you ran away yourself? Everyone knows who Ervyll is and what he likes. Everyone thinks that he… did something in a drunken state and ordered you drowned in a pond! We are on the brink of war with Nilfgaard. The treaty and the alliance with your grandmother were thrown to the devils! You see the extent of your misdeed?’

  ‘Don't get worked up over this,’ said the witcher, ‘you could cause a hemorrhage. How did you manage to get here so fast?’

  ‘If only I knew. I was unconscious the better part of the time. They pushed something disgusting down my throat. Forcefully, pinching my throat… What an affront, those bitches…’

  ‘You survived thanks to what they forced down your throat. They carried you all the way here?’

  ‘They put me on a sled. I asked for news of you, but they kept silent. I was sure you had fallen to an arrow. You were gone so quickly… and there you are safe and sound, and without so much as a limp; what's more, well done, you found Princess Cirilla. Devil take me, Geralt, you always pull through, like a cat landing on its feet.’

  The witcher smiled without responding. Freixenet turned his head to cough violently and spit out a pink substance.

  ‘So,’ he added, ‘from the fact that they haven't finished me off, I must be doing well. They know you, those diabolical huntresses. That's the second time you've saved me from danger.’

  ‘Don't mention it, baron.’

  Freixenet tried to sit up, groaning in pain, but had to give up.

  ‘With my barony in the latrines,’ he grumbled, ‘I was Baron of Hamm. I am currently something resembling a voivode for Ervyll of Verden. Or rather I was, because even if I get out of this forest alive, my only place in Verden will be on the scaffold. Cirilla, that little minx, escaped under the surveillance of my guards. You think I would have gone adventuring with two companions in Brokilone for fun? No, Geralt, I too have fled. I could only count on the clemency of Ervyll under the condition that I brought her back. And then we came across those accursed creatures… Without you, I would still be in the hole. You saved me again. It's destiny. It's clear as crystal.’

  ‘You're exaggerating.’

  Freixenet turned his head.

  ‘It's destiny,’ he repeated. ‘It must have been written that we would meet again, witcher. And that once again, you'd save my skin. I remember that we spoke in Hamm after you freed me from the spell of that bird.’

  ‘It's chance,’ Geralt retorted coldly, ‘chance, Freixenet.’

  ‘What chance? Hell, without you, I would still be a cormorant today.’

  ‘You were a cormorant,’ Ciri cried in excitement, ‘a real cormorant, a bird?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the baron, clenching his teeth. ‘A… a whore… a bitch… for revenge.’

  ‘You clearly didn't give her a fur stole,’ Ciri said, wrinkling her nose, ‘or a muff.’

  ‘There was another reason,’ Freixenet continued, blushing slightly, ‘but what difference does it make to you, you dirty brat?’ Ciri, visibly annoyed, turned her head; Freixenet began to cough. ‘Yes… me… You delivered me from a spell at Hamm. Without you, Geralt, I would be spending the rest of my life as a cormorant. I would fly over the lake and deposit my droppings on the branches of the trees, dressed in the shirt woven by my little sister with pine nettles, in her pigheaded determination to improve things, to liberate me from the spell. Hell, when I'm reminded of that shirt, I want to hit someone. What an idiot…’

  ‘Don't talk like that,’ said the witcher, laughing. ‘Her intentions were pure. She had been tricked, that's all. A number of nonsensical myths approach the question of disenchantment. You're lucky, Freixenet. She could have ordered that you be plunged into boiling milk. It has happened before. Dressing someone in a nettle shirt doesn't threaten their health, even if it doesn't help.’

  ‘Hmm, perhaps so. Perhaps I expected too much of her. Elise has always been a fool, since she was a little girl: silly and pretty, perfect material for becoming the wife of a king.’

  ‘What pretty material is that?’ asked Ciri. ‘And why to become a wife?’

  ‘I told you not to meddle in this, brat. Yes, Geralt, I was lucky that you appeared in Hamm and that the good brother of the king was inclined to spend the ducats to have you disenchant me.’

  ‘You know, Freixenet,’ responded the witcher, laughing more and more, ‘that the story has spread far and wide?’

  ‘The real version?’

  ‘Not quite. First, you've been decked out with ten brothers.’

  ‘Oh no!’ The baron raised himself on his elbows, coughing.
‘Including Elise, then we would be twelve? What dark idiocy! My mother was certainly not a rabbit!’

  ‘That's not all. It was thought that a cormorant was not sufficiently romantic.’

  ‘Indeed it isn't! There is nothing romantic about it!’ The baron made a face, massaging his chest, which was bandaged by twigs and strips of bark. ‘And what then do they say I was transformed into?’

  ‘A swan. More precisely, swans plural, because there were eleven of you, remember?’

  ‘And how, I ask you, is a swan more romantic than a cormorant?’

  ‘I don't know.’

  ‘Me neither. But I am betting in this story, Elise delivers me from this fate with a damned shirt of nettles.’

  ‘You've got it. By the way, how's Elise?’

  ‘The poor thing is consumptive. She won't last much longer.’

  ‘It's sad.’

  ‘Yes,’ Freixenet confirmed without emotion, looking away.

  ‘To return to your enchantment…’ Geralt leaned against the wall of braided, supple branches. ‘Do you still have any symptoms? Feathers growing on your body?’

  ‘By the grace of the gods, no,’ sighed the baron. ‘All is well. The only characteristic that remains from that time is a taste for fish. Nothing beats a good feast of fish. Sometimes I visit the fishermen in the morning on the harbor, and before they've caught even one more noble piece, I content myself first with the delectable taste of a handful of a dozen bleaks, still teeming in their holding tanks, some small loach straight, a dace or a chub… It's more pleasure than a real banquet.’