‘He was a cormorant,’ Ciri said slowly, looking at Geralt. ‘And you're the one who disenchanted him. You know how to cast spells?’
‘That seems obvious,’ retorted Freixenet. ‘All witchers know how.’
‘Wit… Witcher?’
‘You don't know that he's a witcher? The famous Geralt of Rivia! Indeed, how could a brat like you know that he's a witcher? In our time, it's not like it was. There aren't many witchers today. You almost never meet them anymore. Have you already seen one?’
Ciri slowly shook her head without looking away from Geralt.
‘A witcher, kid, is…’ Freixenet paused and turned pale, seeing Braenn enter the hut. ‘No, I won't! I don't want anything stuffed down my throat, no way! Geralt, tell her…’
‘Calm down.’
Braenn only gave Freixenet a furtive glance. She went directly to Ciri, who was crouched next to the witcher.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come, sickly little one.’
‘Where are we going?’ Ciri asked, grimacing. ‘I will not. I want to stay with Geralt.’
‘Go ahead,’ Geralt said, forcing a smile. ‘You'll have fun with Braenn and the young dryads. They'll show you Duén Canell…’
‘She didn't blindfold me,’ Ciri said very slowly. ‘On the way, she didn't blindfold me. You, yes. So that you can't come back. That means that…’
Geralt stared at Braenn. The dryad shrugged and took the little girl in her arms, holding her close.
‘That means…’ Ciri's voice broke. ‘That means I will never get out of here. Doesn't it?’
‘No-one escapes their destiny.’
They all turned their heads in the direction of that voice: full, low, firm and decisive. A voice that demanded that one listen and tolerated no objection. Braenn bowed. Geralt knelt.
‘Madame Eithné…’
The sovereign of Brokilone wore a thin green dress, light and flowing. She was, like most of the dryads, small and thin, but carried herself proudly. Her serious and hard face, her pursed lips, gave the impression that she was larger and more powerful. The color of her hair and her eyes resembled molten silver.
She entered the hut escorted by two younger dryads, armed with bows. She silently motioned to Braenn, who hastened to take Ciri by the hand and led her toward the exit, bowing her head. Ciri, pale, confused, followed with a stiff and inelegant gait. When she passed beside Eithné, the silver-haired dryad seized her chin and looked the little girl in the eyes for a long time. Geral saw Ciri shaking.
‘Go,’ Eithné said at last. ‘Go, my child. Don't be afraid of anything. Nothing can change your destiny. You are in Brokilone.’
Ciri trotted quietly behind Braenn. She turned at the door of the hut. The witcher noticed that her lips trembled and that her eyes filled with tears, brilliant as glass. He nevertheless continued to kneel silently, always bowing his head in respect.
‘Rise, Gwynbleidd, welcome.’
‘Hail, Eithné, sovereign of Brokilone.’
‘I am once again pleased to welcome you to my forest. Even though you come without my consent or even my knowledge. Entering Brokilone in this way is risky, White Wolf. Even for you.’
‘I'm on a mission.’
‘Ah!’ The dryad smiled slightly. ‘This explains your temerity, to use the only appropriate term. Geralt, the immunity of delegates is only observed among humans. As for me, I do not accept it. I recognize, moreover, nothing that is human. Here, this is Brokilone.’
‘Eithné…’
‘Silence,’ she cut in without raising her voice. ‘I gave the order to spare you. You will leave Brokilone alive. Not by virtue of your status as a messenger, but for other reasons.’
‘You don't want, then, to know for whom I act as delegate?’
‘To be honest, no. Here, we are in Brokilone. You come from the outside, a world that does not interest me at all. Why should I waste my time hearing delegates? What does it matter to me, the proposals or the ultimatums set by someone who I know thinks and feels differently from me? What does it matter to me what King Venzlav thinks?’
Geralt turned his head in astonishment.
‘How do you know that it's Venzlav who sent me?’
‘It's all too evident,’ replied the dryad, smiling. ‘Ekkehard is too foolish. Ervyll and Viraxas hate me too much. I see no other surrounding areas.’
‘You know a lot about what is happening outside Brokilone, Eithné.’
‘I know many things, White Wolf. It is the privilege of my age. Now, if you would, I would like to resolve a matter. The man who looks like a bear…’ the dryad stopped smiling and looked at Freixenet, ‘is your friend?’
‘We know each other. I once delivered him from a spell.’
‘The problem is that I do not know what to do with him. I can't order his execution after allowing him to be cared for, even if he is a threat. He doesn't have the air of a fanatic, perhaps of a scalp-hunter. I know that Ervyll pays for every dryad scalp. I can't remember how much. The price increases along with everything else from inflation.’
‘You are mistaken. He is not a scalp-hunter.’
‘Why then did he enter Brokilone?’
‘To look for the little girl for whom he was responsible. He risked his life to find her.’
‘That's absurd,’ she said coldly. ‘He took more than a risk. He went to certain death. He owes his life to having the constitution and strength of a horse. Regarding the child, she also owes her life to chance. My daughters did not fire, believing her to be a pixie or a leprechaun.’
Her gaze rested once more on Freixenet. Geralt noticed that her lips were losing their unpleasant harshness.
‘Well then. Celebrate this day.’
Eithné approached the bed of branches. The two dryads who accompanied her did the same. Freixenet paled and curled up in the hope of disappearing.
She watched for a moment, blinking her eyes slightly.
‘Do you have children?’ she asked at last. ‘I am speaking to you, blockhead.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I spoke clearly.’ ‘I'm not…’ Freixenet cleared his throat, coughing. ‘I'm not married.’
‘Your family is not important. I want to know if your fat loins are able to kindle fires. By the Great Tree! Have you ever knocked up a woman?’
‘Eh, well! Yes… yes, madame, but…’
Eithné gave a careless wave of her hand and then turned to Geralt.
‘He will remain in Brokilone,’ she said, ‘until he is completely healed and then for some time longer. Then… he will go wherever he pleases.’
‘Thank you, Eithné.’ The witcher bowed. ‘And the little girl… What is your decision?’
‘Why do you ask me that?’ The dryad's silver eyes fixed coldly on him. ‘You know that well.’
‘She isn't an ordinary child, she is not from a village. She is a princess.’
‘This does not impress me. It makes no difference.’
‘Listen…’
‘Not another word, Gwynbleidd.’
Geralt paused, pursing his lips.
‘What about my mission?’
‘I am listening,’ murmured the dryad. ‘Not out of curiosity. As a personal favor to you: you can testify to Venzlav that his request was made and collect the money that he certainly promised you for your visit to my kingdom. But not now. I am busy. Pay me a visit tonight in my Tree.’
Freixenet rose onto his elbows after the dryad was gone. He groaned, coughed, and spat in his hand.
‘What does this mean, Geralt? Why am I supposed to stay? What does she want with these children? What story are we beginning, eh?’
‘You will keep your head, Freixenet,’ replied the witcher in a tired voice. ‘You will become one of the privileged few who have left Brokilone alive. Lately, in any case. And then, you will become the father of a little dryad, perhaps several.’
‘How? I must become… a breeding stallion?’
‘You can call it what you like. Y
our choice is limited.’
‘I understand,’ groaned the baron, with a vulgar smile. ‘I've seen prisoners of war working in the mines or digging canals. Of the two evils, I prefer… I simply hope that I have the strength. There are quite a few here…’
‘Stop that stupid smiling, thinking your dreams are coming true,’ Geralt said, scowling. ‘Here there is no honor, no music, no wine, no fans, let alone hordes of amorous dryads. You will meet one, perhaps two. There will be no sentiment. They will treat the matter and even more so yourself very pragmatically.’
‘They don't feel pleasure? At the least, I hope that it doesn't hurt them.’
‘Stop acting like a child. In this respect, they are no different from ordinary women. At least physically.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is up to you whether the dryad enjoys herself or not. This does not change the fact that only the outcome will be important. Your person in this case is secondary. Expect no recognition. Ah! And never take the initiative, under any circumstances.’
‘The initiative?’
‘If you meet her in the morning,’ the witcher continued patiently, ‘bow down, and by all the devils, don't smile or wink. This is for dryads a gravely serious subject. If she's smiling or approaches you, you can then start the conversation. It is best to talk about trees. If you don't know about those, you can still talk about the weather. If, on the other hand, she pretends not to see you, keep your distance. And keep your distance from the other dryads. And your hands in your pockets. A dryad unprepared for this exchange wouldn't understand what you were doing. You risk a knife-slash for wanting to touch her: she would not understand the intent.’ ‘Have you already tasted the joys of dryad marriage?’ joked Freixenet. ‘This has happened to you?’
The witcher did not respond. He had before his eyes the beautiful and svelte dryad, the insolence of her smile. Vatt'ghern, bloede caérme. A witcher: a sorrry fate. What do you have to report, Braenn? What can he give us? There is nothing to be gained from a witcher…
‘Geralt?’
‘What?’
‘What will happen with Princess Ciri?’
‘You can depend on it. She will soon become a dryad. In two or three years, she'll put an arrow through her own brother's eye if he tries to enter Brokilone.’
‘Damn,’ shouted Freixenet, blanching. ‘Ervyll will be furious. Geralt? It wouldn't be possible to…’
‘No,’ interrupted the witcher. ‘Don't even try. You will not get out of Duén Canell alive.’
‘That means the little one is lost.’
‘For you, yes.’
VI
The Tree of Eithné was, it went without saying, an oak, or rather three oaks that melded with each other as they grew, still green and betraying no symptoms of desiccation despite the there hundred years, at least, that Geralt attributed to them. The trunks were hollow. The cavity they formed was the size of a large room with high ceilings tapering into a cone. The interior, lit by a feeble lantern, had been transformed into a comfortable home where modesty prevailed over hardiness.
Eithné waited, kneeling on a woven carpet. Ciri, washed and cured of her cold, sat cross-legged before her, straight as a ramrod and motionless, her almond eyes wide open. The witcher saw a beautiful face where no trace of dirt or evil grin appeared now.
The dryad was carefully and slowly combing the girl's long hair.
‘Enter, Geralt, sit down.’
He sat formally, bending first on one knee.
‘Are you rested?’ she asked, without looking to the witcher and continuing to comb Ciri's hair. ‘When do you think you will take the path back? What do you say to tomorrow morning?’
‘As you wish, sovereign of Brokilone,’ he responded coldly. ‘A single word from you is enough to be rid of my indecent presence in Duén Canell.’
‘Geralt…’ Eithné slowly turned her head. ‘Understand me well. I know you and respect you. I know that you have never harmed a dryad, naiad, sylph or nymph, rather the contrary: you often come to their defense, save their lives. But that changes nothing in this matter. Too many things separate us. Our worlds are different. I neither wish to nor am able to make exceptions. For anyone. I am not asking if you understand this, because I know that you do. I ask if you accept it.’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘None. But I want to know.’
‘I accept it,’ he confirmed. ‘What will happen to the girl? She doesn't belong in this world either.’
Ciri gave him a fierce look and then glanced up toward the dryad. Eithné smiled.
‘Not for long,’ she replied.
‘Eithné, please, think again.’
‘About what?’
‘Give her to me. Let her leave with me to her own world.’
‘No, White Wolf.’ The dryad once again thrust the comb deep in Ciri's ashen hair. ‘I will not give her to you. You should understand better than anyone.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Brokilone is not closed to the world's news. Some of it concerns a certain witcher who, in payment for his services, sometimes extorts a very curious oath: 'Give me what your house holds without your knowledge,' 'Give me what you possess without knowing it.' Isn't this familiar to you? In this way, you have tried for some time to change the course of destiny. In search of the young boys that destiny offers you for your succession, you try to avert death and oblivion. You struggle against nothingness. Why then do you greet this consequence with astonishment? I care only about the destiny of dryads. Is that not justice? For each dryad assassinated by the humans, I take a young girl.’
‘In the taking, you stir up animosity and the desire for vengeance. You promote hatred.’
‘Human hatred… Nothing new under the sun. No, Geralt. I will not give her back. Especially since she is healthy. It's somewhat rare today.’
‘Somewhat rare?’
The dryad directed her large silver eyes to him:
‘They abandon sick girls to me: diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, and even smallpox lately. They think that we have no immunity and that an epidemic will destroy us, or at least decimate our ranks. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilone takes care of its children.’
Eithné fell silent. She leaned down and used her second hand to delicately untangle a stubborn knot.
‘May I divulge the content of the message sent to you by the king Venzlav?’
‘Isn't it a waste of time?’ asked the dryad, raising her head. ‘Why trouble yourself? I know perfectly well what King Venzlav intends to offer me. There is no need for the gift of clairvoyance to know that. He wants me to grant him a part of Brokilone's territory from, let's say, up to the Vda river which he considers or would like to consider a natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I suppose that he will offer me an enclave: a little piece of wild forest. I suppose also that his word and his royal prerogative guarantees that this little bit of wild land, this modest patch of primeval forest, will be ours for ever and ever, and that no-one will dare attack the dryads, that they will be able to live there in peace. What, Geralt? Venzlav wants to end a war with Brokilone that has lasted for two centuries? And for this, the dryads should offer that for which they have perished for two hundred years? Offer Brokilone? So easily?’
Geralt kept silent. He had nothing to add. The dryad laughed.
‘The proposition of the king is like this, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it is less hypocritical: 'Come down from your complacency, old bogey of the woods, savage beast, relic of the past, and hear what we, King Venzlav, desire: cedar, oak and white hickory, and then mahogany, golden birch, yew for bows and pine for planks. Brokilone runs alongside us, but we import our wood from behind the mountains. We want the iron and copper that's hidden in your basement. We want the gold veins of Craag An. We want to attack, sawing and digging, without hearing the hiss of your arrows. And most importantly: we want to finally become master of all the kingdom has
to offer. We do not want a Brokilone and a forest through which we cannot march. Such an entity hurts our pride, irritates us and keeps us awake, as we are, we humans, the owners of the world. We can tolerate in this world some elves, dryads or naiads, provided these creatures stay discreet. Accept our will, Sovereign of Brokilone, or perish.'’
‘Eithné, you have yourself agreed that Venzlav is neither so idiotic nor fanatical. You know without a doubt that he is a just king, venerating peace, saddened and worried when blood is shed…’
‘If he keeps his distance from Brokilone, not a drop of blood will spill.’ ‘You know very well,’ replied Geralt, lifting his head, ‘that the situation is somewhat different: humans have been killed at the Scorched Earth, at the Eighth League, in the hills of the Owl; and then too in Brugge, on the left bank of the Ruban. All these places are situated outside of Brokilone. The forest was cleared there a hundred years ago!’
‘What meaning do a hundred years have for Brokilone? And a hundred winters?’