Sword of Destiny

  Yes, I was right, he thought. He did not respond.

  ‘Going back to your injury,’ she continued calmly, ‘you must know that your heart rate, four times slower than that of an ordinary man, saved your life. Otherwise you wouldn't have survived, I can say that with certainly. I saw the bandage that you had on your leg, it was a poor imitation of a dressing.’

  Geralt remained silent.

  ‘Later,’ she continued, lifting his shirt up to his neck, ‘the wound became infected, which is normal with bites. The infection was finally stopped. Of course, your witcher elixir helped significantly. Still, I don't understand why you took hallucinogens at the same time. I heard your ravings, Geralt of Rivia.’

  She can, he thought, she can read thoughts. Perhaps Yurga told her my name. Perhaps I blurted it out while I was under the effects of ‘black gull.’ Devil only knows… But the fact that she knows my name means nothing. Nothing. She doesn't know who I am. She is completely unaware of who I am.

  He felt her apply to his back a cool and soothing ointment that smelled strongly of camphor. Her hands were small and very soft.

  ‘I'm sorry for using conventional methods,’ she said. ‘I could remove your bedsore by magic, but I have overexerted myself a little when I treated your wound, and I'm not feeling too well. I bandaged your leg and healed it as much as I could. You're no longer in danger. Don't get up for two days. Even veins repaired by magic can rupture and cause terrible bleeding. The scar will remain, of course. One more addition to your collection.’

  ‘Thank you…’ He pressed his cheek against the skin to distort his voice and conceal his unnatural tone: ‘Might I know to whom I owe my thanks?’

  She will not tell me, he thought, or she will prefer to lie.

  ‘My name is Visenna.’

  I know, he thought.

  ‘I am glad,’ he said slowly, his cheek still pressed against the skin, ‘I am glad that our paths have crossed, Visenna.’

  ‘Well, by chance,’ she replied coolly, replacing his shirt on his back and covering him with sheepskins. ‘The customs officials informed me that someone is in need of my services. When I am needed, I go - it's a strange habit of mine. Listen: I gave the ointment to the merchant. Ask him to apply it in the morning and in the evening. Since he claims that you saved his life, he can repay you thus.’

  ‘And me, Visenna? How can I repay you, Visenna?’

  ‘Don't talk about that. I never take money from witchers. Call it solidarity, if you want, professional solidarity. And sympathy. As part of this sympathy, I would like to offer you a piece of advice, or if you prefer, a recommendation from a healer: stop taking hallucinogens, Geralt. Hallucinogens don't heal; they do nothing.’

  ‘Thank you, Visenna, for your help and your advice. I am grateful to you… for everything.’

  He moved his hand from under the sheepskin and touched her knee. She trembled. She took his hand and squeezed it lightly. Geralt carefully freed his fingers out of her hands and touched her forearm.

  Of course. The smooth skin of a young girl. She trembled even more, but he did not withdraw his hand. He found her hand and grasped it.

  The medallion around his neck vibrated in agitation.

  ‘Thank you, Visenna,’ he repeated, controlling the tremor in his voice. ‘I'm glad that we have crossed paths.’

  ‘It was chance…’ she answered again, but this time without coldness in her voice.

  ‘Perhaps it was destiny?’ he suggested, surprised that his excitement and nervousness had disappeared without a trace. ‘Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, after some time. ‘I believe in it.’

  ‘Do you believe that people bound by fate,’ he continued, ‘are always destined to meet one another?’

  ‘I believe in that too… What are you doing? Don't turn around.’

  ‘I want to look at your face… Visenna. I want to look into your eyes. And you… you can look into mine.’

  She made a movement as if she would fall to her knees, but she remained at his side. Geralt turned slowly, wincing in pain. The light was bright: someone had thrown more wood on the fire.

  She did not move. She turned her face to one side, showing only her profile. But he could all the more clearly see that her lips were trembling. She squeezed his hand hard.

  Geralt watched her carefully.

  There was no resemblance. Her profile was completely different. A small nose. A narrow chin. She said nothing. She finally leaned over and looked him straight in the eye. Up close. Without saying a word.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked calmly. ‘My enhanced eyes? These… are unusual. Do you know, Visenna, what is done to the witchers to get these eyes? Do you know that it is not always successful?’

  ‘Stop,’ she said softly. ‘Stop it, Geralt.’

  ‘Geralt…’ He felt suddenly something torn up in him. ‘This name was given to me by Vesemir. Geralt of Rivia! I even learned to imitate the Rivian accent. Perhaps to fill an inner yearning to belong to somewhere, even if it was fictitious. Vesemir… gave me this name. He also revealed your identity to me. Not without reluctance.’

  ‘Hush, Geralt, hush.’

  ‘You tell me today that you believe in destiny. At the time… did you believe it back then? Yes, you had to believe. You have already foreseen that destiny would ordain our meeting. This should be attributed to the lone fact never actively seek this meeting.’

  She still said nothing.

  ‘I've always wanted… I mulled over what I would tell you when we finally met. I thought about the question I would ask you. I believed that it would give me a perverse pleasure…’

  A tear glistened on her cheek. Geralt felt his throat tighten painfully. He was tired, drowsy, and weak.

  ‘In the light of day…’ he murmured, ‘tomorrow, in the sunlight, I will look into your eyes, Visenna… And I will ask you my question. Or perhaps I won't ask, because it's too late. Was it destiny? Yes, Yen was right. It is simply not enough for yourself to be bound by destiny. You need something more… But I will look into your eyes tomorrow… in the sunlight.’

  ‘No,’ she replied softly, in a velvetly voice that pierced through and tugged at layers of memory, memory long forgotten, which have never been and yet was present nonetheless.

  ‘Yes ,’ he protested. ‘Yes I would…’

  ‘No. Sleep now. When you wake up, you will stop wanting that. What good does it do if we lock eyes in the daylight? What will that change? There is nothing we can undo, nothing we can change. What sense is there in asking me that question, Geralt? Does the fact that I don't know how to answer it give you a perverse pleasure? That we will hurt each other? No, we will not look into each other's eyes in the daylight. Go to sleep, Geralt. And just between us, know that it wasn't Vesemir who gave you this name. Even though it won't change or undo anything, I still want you to know that. Farewell, take care of yourself. Don't try to find me…’

  ‘Visenna…’

  ‘No, Geralt. You're going to fall asleep. And me… I was your dream. Farewell.’

  ‘No, Visenna!’

  ‘Sleep!’ she commanded in a velvety voice that broke the witcher's will like a dry fabric. Heat suddenly emanated from her hand.

  ‘Sleep.’

  Geralt fell asleep.

  VI

  ‘Are we already in Transriver, Yurga?’

  ‘Since yesterday, sir Geralt. We will reach the Yarouga river soon. My home is on the other side. Look, even the horses walk more briskly and shake their head from side to side. They can feel that they are close to home.’

  ‘Home… You live within the castle's fortifications?’

  ‘No, in the suburb.’

  ‘Interesting.’ The witcher looked around. ‘Almost no visible traces of the war. It was said that the country was horribly destroyed.’

  ‘Well,’ Yurga replied, ‘we are short on a lot of things, but ruins is not one of them. Take a closer look: almost every house, every
courtyard, everything is brand new, made through carpentry. Beyond the river, you’ll see, it's even worse, where the fire burned everything to the ground… War is war, but one must keep on living. We experienced the greatest turmoils when the Black Ones waged a war on our lands. It seemed then that it would change this place into a desert. Many of those who fled then have never returned. In their place, newcomers have settled. Life goes on.’

  ‘That's right,’ murmured Geralt, ‘life must go on. No matter what happened… one must keep on living…’

  ‘Absolutely right. Here! Look at it this way. I sewed and patched your trousers. Now they are like new. Just like this land, sir Geralt. The war tore and trampled it under iron horseshoes; bruised and bloodied it; but now the land is as good as new, and even better than before. Even rotten things serve as good fertilizers for the soil. For now we have to plow hard, because there are bones and scraps of metal everywhere in the fields, but the Earth can cope with the iron.’

  ‘Don’t you fear that the Nilfgaardians… that the Black Ones will return? They have already found their way through the mountains once…’

  ‘Well of course, we fear them. So what? Should we sit down and cry, tremble? Life must go on. Come what may. After all, if these things are meant to be, then there is no avoiding it.’

  ‘You believe, then, in destiny?’

  ‘How can I not believe in it? After our meeting on the bridge in the wilderness where you saved my life! Oh, sir witcher, you'll see, my Złotolitka will fall at your feet…’

  ‘Come now. In truth, I am the one indebted to you. What I did on the bridge… it was my job, Yurga, my profession. I protect money in exchange for money, and not out of the kindness of my heart. Surely you have heard of what people say about witchers? That they don’t know which is worse - them, or the monsters that they kill.’

  ‘It’s not true, sir, I don't understand why you say so. You think that I can’t see with my own eyes? You are cut from the same cloth as that healer…’

  ‘Visenna…’

  ‘She didn't tell us her name. She came to us and offered her services without hesitation, knowing that we needed her help. She caught up with us in the evening, barely descended from her saddle when she hurried to take a look at you. Oh, sir, she struggled with treating your leg, the air crackled with magic and we were so terrified that we fled into the forest. And then blood came out from her nose. Magic is not easy, you see. Oh, she dressed your wound with such care, like…’

  ‘Like a mother?’ Geralt asked through clenched teeth.

  ‘Effectively. That's right. And as you fell asleep…’

  ‘Yes, Yurga?’

  ‘White as a sheet, she was barely on her feet. But she came to ask us if the rest of us needed her help. The tar-maker, who had his hand crushed by a tree, was cured by her. She didn't take a cent., and she even left the medicine. No, sir Geralt, people can say what they want about witchers and sorceresses. But not here. We, the people of Upper Sodden, of Transriver, we know better. We owe sorcerers too much, even though we don’t know who they really are. Their memories are not passed on through rumors, but etched in stone. You can see for yourself in the end of the grove. Besides, you certainly know better than I do. The whole world knows about the battle that was fought here less than a year ago. You must have heard about it.’

  ‘I wasn’t here,’ muttered the witcher. ‘That year. I was in the North. But I’ve heard about the Second battle of Sodden…’

  ‘Exactly. You will see the hill and the rock. In the past, we simply call it ‘Kite Hill' but now the whole world knows it as the ‘Mage Hill’ or ‘Hill of the Fourteen’. Because twenty-two sorcerers were on this hill, twenty-two sorcerers stood there in the battle, and fourteen perished. It was a terrible battle, sir Geralt. The ground rose up, fire rained down from the sky, thunder rumbled. Corpses littered the ground. But the sorcerers at last overcame the Black Ones and broke the Might of those who led them. Fourteen of them died in this battle. Fourteen of them gave their lives… What's wrong, sir? What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Continue, Yurga.’

  ‘It was a terrible battle, oh, were it not for the sorcerers on the hill, we surely would not be able to talk like this today, you and I, on the tranquil road to my house, because my house wouldn't exist anymore, and neither would I nor perhaps you … Yes, we are indebted to the sorcerers. Fourteen of them were killed defending us, the people of Sodden and Transriver. Of course there were others who fought as well: warriors and noblemen, and even peasants who took up their pitchfork and axe, or even a stake… All fought valiantly and many were killed. But the sorcerers… No doubt soldiers die, because it’s their job after all, and life is short anyway… But sorcerers can live as long as they wish. Even so, they did not hesitate.’

  ‘They did not hesitate,’ repeated the witcher, rubbing his forehead. ‘They did not hesitate. And me, I was in the North…’

  ‘What's wrong, sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes… All of us around this area leave flowers on that hill and in the season of May, on Belleteyn, there is always a fire burning. It will burn forever and ever. These fourteen will live forever in the memory of the people. To live yet in the memory of others… This… is something more! More, sir Geralt!’

  ‘You're right, Yurga.’

  ‘Every child knows the names of the fourteen, carved on a stone on top of the hill. You don't believe me? Listen: Axel Raby, Triss Merigold, Atlan Kerk, Vanielle of Brugge, Dagobert of Vole…’

  ‘Stop, Yurga.’

  ‘What's wrong, my lord? You're pale as death.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  VII

  He climbed the hill very slowly, carefully, listening intently to the working of his magically healed tendons and muscle. Although it seemed completely healed, he still took care not to put his full weight on the previously wounded leg. It was hot. He was intoxicated with the smell of grass, but intoxicated in a good way.

  The obelisk was not placed in the center of the plateau at the top of the hill, but further down, outside a circle of angular stones. If Geralt had come here before sunset, the shadow cast by the standing stone onto the circle would designate its precise diameter, and would indicate the direction in which the sorcerers’ face was turned during the battle. He looked in that direction, toward the endless, rolling fields. If there were still bones – he was certain – they would be hidden underneath the lush grass. A hawk circled in the distance, hovering serenely with outstretched wings outstretched - the only movement among the stillness of the landscape in the heat.

  The base of the obelisk was large. It would require at least four or five people with joined hands to encircle it. It was obvious that it would have been impossible to transport onto the hill without the help of magic. The surface of the menhir facing the circle of stones was smoothly hewn, and runic characters could be seen on it - the names of the fourteen who died.

  He appproached it slowly. Yurga was right. Flowers laid at the foot of the obelisk, common wild flowers - poppies, lupines, ślazy, and forget-me-nots.

  Names of the fourteen.

  He read slowly from the top, and the faces of those he knew appeared before his eye.

  Chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling over nothing, looking like a child. He liked her. The feeling was mutual.

  Lawdbor of Murivel, whom Geralt almost fought in the Vizima, when he caught the sorcerer manipulating the dice in a game with telekinesis.

  Lytta Neyd, also known as Coral because of the colour of the lipstick she used. She had once spoken ill of Geralt to the King Belohun, so that he spent a week in the dungeon. When he was released, he went to find her to ask for her reasons. Without realizing how, he ended up on her bed and spent the second week there.

  Gorazd the Old, who wanted to pay him 100 gold for the opportunity to examine his eyes, and offered 1,000 for the opportunity to dissect him, ‘not today,’ he had clarified at that time.

  There were three n
ames.

  Geralt heard a slight rustle behind him and turned.

  She was barefoot, dressed in a simple linen dress. She wore a braided wreath of daisy on the long, blond hair falling freely on her arms and shoulder.

  ‘Greetings,’ he said.

  Without answering, she looked at him with cold, blue eyes.

  Geralt noticed that she was not tanned. It was strange, because it was the end of summer, when the skin of the country girls usually turned brown from the sun. Her face and bare shoulders were slightly golden.

  ‘You've brought flowers?’

  She smiled and lowered her eyelids. He felt a chill. She passed by him without a word and knelt at the foot of the menhir, touching the stone with her hand.

  ‘I don't bring flowers,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘But the ones that lie here are for me.’

  He looked at her. She knelt in a way such that her body obscured the view of the last name engraved on the stone. The girl was bright, unnaturally bright against the dark background of the rock.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  I know, he thought, looking at the icy blue of her eyes. Yes, I think I know.