‘Nothing, nothing worth mentioning.’
They remained silent.
‘Belleteyn!’ she cried suddenly. Geralt felt the shoulders pressed against his chest stiffen. ‘They feast. They celebrate the eternal cycle of nature. But we? What are we doing here? We, relics, condemned to extinction, to extermination and oblivion. Nature is reborn, the cycle repeats itself. But not us, Geralt. We can't perpetuate ourselves. We are denied that possibility. We were given the ability to do extraordinary things with nature, sometimes even against it; yet at the same time the simplest and most natural thing was taken away from us. Does it matter that we live longer than humans? After our winter, there is no rebirth in the spring, what ends, ends with us. But we are still drawn to the fires, even though our presence is a pernicious and blasphemous mockery of what is sacred.’
He remained silent. He did not like to see her fall into such a mood, the cause of which he knew all too well. It's starting to gnaw at her again, he thought. There was a time when she seemed to forget, to come to terms with her fate. He took her in his arms, rocking her gently like a child. She did not resist. Geralt was not surprised; he knew that she needed it.
‘You know, Geralt,’ she said suddenly, regaining calmness, ‘it's your silence that I've missed the most.’
He pressed his lips to her hair, her ears. I want you, Yen, he thought, I want you, you know that. You know it well, Yen.
‘I know,’ she murmured.
‘Yen…’ he sighed again.
‘Only for now,’ she replied, watching him with wide-open eyes. ‘Only on this night which will soon pass. Let this be our Belleteyn. We will part in the morning. I beg you, don't count on anything more. I can't… I couldn't. Forgive me. If I've made you upset, kiss me and walk away.’
‘If I kiss you, I won't leave.’
‘That's what I thought.’
She lowered her head. Geralt kissed her parted lips. Carefully: first the upper lip, then the lower. His hands became entangled in her curls, touched her ears, the gems in the lobes, her neck. Returning his kiss, Yennefer drew herself to him; her nimble fingers made quick work of the clasps of his jacket.
She laid down on her back onto the coat stretched out over the moss. Geralt kissed her breasts. He felt the nipples harden and protruding under the fine fabric of her blouse. Yennefer was breathing raggedly.
‘Yen…’
‘Don't say anything… please…’
The touch of her bare skin, smooth and cool, electrified his palm and his fingers. Geralt's back shuddered under Yennefer's nails. From the fire came the sounds of shouting, singing, whistling; far, far away there was a whirlwind of sparks and purple smoke. Caress and touch. Him, her. Shudder. And impatience. He slid his hand along the slender thighs wrapped around his hips, squeezing like a vice.
Belleteyn!
Sighs and ragged breaths. Flashes under their eyelids. The scent of lilac and gooseberry. The King and the Queen of May? Blasphemous mockery? Oblivion?
It's Belleteyn, the night of May!
A groan. Hers? His? Black curls covered their eyes and mouths. Hands locked. Trembling fingers intertwined. A cry. Hers? Black eyelashes. Wet. Another groan. His?
Then came silence. An eternity of silence.
Belleteyn… The fires on the horizon…
‘Yen?’
‘Oh… Geralt.’
‘Yen, are you crying?’
‘No!’
‘Yen…’
‘I promised myself… I promised…’
‘Don't say anything. It doesn't matter. Aren't you cold?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now?’
‘Warmer.’
The sky brightened at a dizzying speed. The black wall of the forest regained its contours: the distinct line of the ridge of trees emerged from the formless darkness. The azure that followed the announcement of dawn spilled over the horizon, extinguishing the light of the stars. It got colder. Geralt held Yennefer tighter, and covered her with his jacket.
‘Geralt?’
‘Hmm…’
‘It will be dawn.’
‘I know.’
‘Have I hurt you?’
‘A little.’
‘Will it start all over again?’
‘It never ended.’
‘Please… I feel good with you…’
‘Don't say anything. Everything's fine.’
The smell of smoke was rising from the heather. The smell of lilac and gooseberries.
‘Geralt?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember when we met at the Big Kestrel Mountain? And the golden dragon… What was his name?’
‘Three Jackdaws. I remember.’
‘He told us…’
‘I remember, Yen.’
She kissed him on the spot between his neck and his collar bone, then pressed her head there, and tickling him with her hair.
‘We were made for each other,’ she murmured. ‘Perhaps even destined for each other. But none of this can happen. It's a shame, but we shall part at dawn. It can't be otherwise. We have to separate so that we don't hurt one another. Us, destined for each other. Made for each other. It's a shame. The one who created us for himself should have thought of something more. Just sharing the same fate is not enough. We need something more. Forgive me. I had to tell you this.’
‘I know.’
‘I knew that it made no sense for us to be together.’
‘A mistake. It was. In spite of everything.’
‘Go back to Cintra, Geralt.’
‘What?’
‘Go to Cintra. Go, and this time don't give up. Don't repeat the mistake from last time…’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know everything about you. Have you forgotten? Go to Cintra, go as fast as possible. A dark time approaches. Very dark. You must get there in time…’
‘Yen…’
‘Don't say anything, please.’
It was getting warmer. And brighter.
‘Don't go yet. Let's wait until dawn.’
‘Let's wait.’
IV
‘Don't get up, sir. I need to change your dressing, because the wound is dirty and your leg is horribly swollen. By the gods, it looks awful… We need to find a healer as soon as possible…’
‘To hell with healers!’ groaned the witcher. ‘Give me my casket, Yurga. Yes, this flask. Pour it directly on the wound. Oh, bloody hell! It's nothing, go on… Ouch! Good. Dress it and cover me…’
‘It's swollen, sir, the whole thigh… And you're stricken with fever…’
‘To hell with the fever… Yurga?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I forgot to thank you…’
‘No, sir, I should be thanking you. It's you who saved my life, and you were wounded while doing so. And I? What have I done? I only tended to an injured and unconscious man. I carried him in my cart and kept him from perishing. It's trivial matter, sir witcher.’
‘It's not so, Yurga. I have been abandoned in similar situations, like a dog…’
The merchant was silent, bowing his head.
‘Yes… it happens. We live in an ugly world,’ he muttered at last. ‘But that's no reason for all of us to behave despicably. We need goodness. That's what my father taught me and that's what I will teach my sons.’
The witcher fell silent. He watched the tree branches that hung over the road and disappeared with the movement of the cart. His thigh came alive. The pain was gone.
‘Where are we?’
‘We have just forded the Trava river. We are actually in the woods of Alkekenge. It's no longer Temeria, but Sodden. You were sleeping when we crossed the border and when customs officers searched the cart. I must tell you that they were surprised to find you there. But the oldest one knew you and they allowed us to go through without delay.’
‘He knew me?’
‘Yes, without a doubt. He called you Geralt. That's what he said: Geralt of Rivia. Is that your na
me?’
‘I…’
‘He promised to send someone ahead with word that a healer is needed. I gave him a little something so that he doesn't forget.’
‘I thank you, Yurga.’
‘No, sir witcher. As I already said, it's I who should thank you. And that's not all. I am still in your debt. We agreed… What's happening, lord? Are you feeling ill?’
‘Yurga… the flask with the green seal…’
‘Sir… Again, you will… You cried out so terribly in your sleep…’
‘I need it, Yurga…’
‘As you wish. Wait while I pour it into a bowl… By the gods, we need a healer, as soon as possible, because otherwise…’
The witcher turned his head. He heard the cries of children playing in the drained ditch next to the castle gardens. There were about ten of them. The kids made a devil of a racket, shouting to each other in their little falsettos, shrill and excited. They ran back and forth at the bottom of the ditch, resembling a school of small fish - changing direction rapidly and abruptly but always staying together. As is always the case in these situations, following the older boys who were thin as scarecrow, a smaller one ran, out of breath, unable to keep up.
‘There are a lot of them,’ the witcher remarked.
Mousesack gave him a forced smile, pulling on his beard and shrugging.
‘Yes, a lot.’
‘And which one of them… Which of these boys is the famous Surprise?’
‘I musn't, Geralt…’
‘Calanthe?’
‘Of course. You don't believe, I hope, that she would give you a child so easily? After all you did meet her. She is a woman of iron. I'll tell you something that I shouldn't admit in the hope that you understand. I'm also counting on you not to betray me before her.’
‘Speak.’
‘When the child was born six years ago, she called for me and ordered me to find you. To kill you.’
‘You refused.’
‘No one refuses Calanthe,’ Mousesack replied seriously, looking him right in the eye. ‘I was ready to set out before she called me back. She revoked the order without any comment. Be careful when you talk to her.’
‘I will. Mousesack, tell me: what happened to Duny and Pavetta?’
‘They were sailing to Skellige from Cintra when a storm hit them. The ship was not found, not even the wooden boards. Geralt… the fact that the child was not on-board with them is very strange. Incomprehensible. They took the child with them on the ship, but they changed their minds at the last moment. No one knows why. Pavetta had never parted with…’
‘How did Calanthe handle this misfortune?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I see.’
Noisy like a bunch of goblins, the boys broke up and slipped past them. Geralt noticed a little girl, just as thin and noisy as the boys, but with a plait of fair hair, running near the head of the group. With a savage cry, the little band slipped down the steep slope of the ditch again. At least half of them, the girl included, fell on their backsides. The youngest, still unable to catch up to the others, rolled down and fell to the bottom where he began to cry, clutching his broken knee. The other boys surrounded him, taunting and laughing before resuming their course. The little girl knelt next to the boy, took him in her arms and dried his eyes, wiping the dust and dirt from his contorted mouth.
‘Come on, Geralt. The queen awaits.’
‘So be it, Mousesack.’
Calanthe was sitting on a wooden bench with a backrest, which was suspended by chains from one of the main branches of an enormous linden tree. It seemed that she was napping, save for the small kick of her foot from time to time to set the swing in motion. Three young women were at her side. One was sitting on the grass near the swing. Her dress fanned over the grass and formed a white spot on the green, like a patch of snow. The other two were trimming the branches of the raspberry bushes not far away.
‘Lady,’ said Mousesack, bowing.
The queen lifted her head. Geralt knelt.
‘Witcher,’ she responded drily.
As before, the queen wore emeralds and green dress matching the colour of her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ashen-gray hair. But her hands, which he remembered as thin and white, were not as thin as before. Calanthe had put on weight.
‘Hail, Calanthe of Cintra.’
‘I bid you welcome, Geralt of Rivia. Rise. I was waiting. Mousesack, please lead the girls to the castle.’
‘At your service, my queen.’
They were left alone.
‘Six years,’ Calanthe said without smiling. ‘You are terribly punctual, witcher.’
He made no comment.
‘There were times, as I say, there were years when I deluded myself that you might forget. Or other reasons preventing you from coming. No, I didn't wish you any misfortune, but I had to take into account the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look back. Then… when Pavetta… Do you already know?’
‘I know,’ Geralt said, inclining his head. ‘My sincere condolences…’
‘No,’ she interrupted, ‘it was a long time ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you can see. I wore them for long enough. Pavetta and Duny… were destined for each other to the end. How can you not believe in the power of destiny?’
They fell silent. Calanthe, with a kick, once again set the swing in motion.
‘And so it is that the witcher returned after the agreed-upon period,’ she said slowly. A strange smile bloomed on her lips. ‘He returned, demanding fulfillment of the vow. What do you think, Geralt? This is probably how the storytellers will recount our meeting in a hundred years from now. I think so. Except that they will embellish the story, strike a chord and play with emotions. Yes, they are capable of that. I can imagine it. Listen, if you would:
‘And the cruel witcher said at last: 'Fulfill your promise, Queen, or my curse will be upon you.' The queen, in tears, fell at the feet of the witcher, crying, 'Mercy! Do not take this child away from me! He is all I have!'’
‘Calanthe…’
‘Don't interrupt me, please,’ she replied drily. ‘Haven't you noticed that I am telling a story? Listen further:
‘The cruel and vicious witcher stamped his foot and waved his arms, shouting: 'Beware, perjurer. You will not escape your punishment if you do not fulfill your vows.' The queen responded: 'So be it, witcher. Let it be as fate would choose it. Look over there: ten children are playing. You will recognize the one destined for you. Take that one and leave me with a broken heart.'’ The witcher was silent.
‘In this fairy tale,’ Calanthe's smile grew more and more unpleasant. ‘the queen, I imagine, offers three chances to the witcher. But we do not live in the world of fairy tales, Geralt. We are indeed real, you, me, and our problem. And so is our destiny. This is not a fable, this is life - Sickening, cruel, arduous, sparing no mistakes. No one is spared from injustice, sorrow, disappointments and misfortunes, neither witchers nor queens. That is why, Geralt of Rivia, you will be granted only one attempt.’
The witcher remained silent.
‘Only once,’ repeated Calanthe. ‘I said before: we are not characters in a fable, this is real life, where we must find our own moments of happiness, because, you know, we can't count on fate for happiness. That is why, regardless of your choice, you will not leave empty-handed. You will take a child. As to which child, it depends on your choice. A child that you will turn into a witcher… provided that he passes the Trial of the Grasses, that is.’
Geralt lifted his head abruptly. The queen was smiling. He knew that smile, terrible, vicious, and contemptuous, concealing none of her artifice.
‘I've surprised you,’ she said. ‘Well, I gave the matter some thought. Since there is a chance that Pavetta's child might become a witcher, I put myself to this task. However, my sources did not inform me of how many out of ten children survives
the Trial of the Grasses. Would you please satisfy my curiosity in this regard?’
‘My queen,’ Geralt began, clearing his throat. ‘Without a doubt you must have taken sufficient pains in your studies to know that my code and my witcher's oath forbid me to utter the word, let alone to discuss it.’
Calanthe forcefully stopped the movement of the swing, planting her heels in the ground.
‘Three, at most four out of ten,’ she explained, feigning concentration with a nod of her head. ‘A difficult selection, very difficult, I would say, and that at each stage. First, the choice, then comes the test. And finally the changes. How many youths ultimately receive the medallion and the silver sword? One out of ten? One out of twenty?’
The witcher remained silent.
‘I have thought about this for a long time,’ Calanthe went on, no longer smiling. ‘I came to the conclusion that the selection of the children at the stage of the choice has little meaning. What difference does it make, Geralt, that one child and not another will die or go mad from a massive dose of drugs? What difference does it make if the mind is rent asunder from the ravings, or the eyes burst out instead of becoming the eyes of a cat? What difference does it make whether one child will die in his own blood and vomit if the child truly destined by providence is completely random? Answer me.’