The Last Wish

  She suddenly turned to where Pavetta and Duny were whispering to each other, holding hands, their foreheads all but touching.

  “Duny!”

  “Yes, your Majesty?”

  “Do you hear? It's dawn! It's already light. And you…”

  Geralt glanced at Mousesack and both started laughing.

  “And why are you so happy, sorcerers? Can't you see—?”

  “We can, we can,” Geralt assured her.

  “We were waiting until you saw for yourself,” snorted Mousesack. “I was wondering when you'd catch on.”

  “To what?”

  “That you've lifted the curse. It's you who's lifted it,” said the witcher. “The moment you said ‘I’m giving you Pavetta,’ destiny was fulfilled.”

  “Exactly,” confirmed the druid.

  “Oh gods,” said Duny slowly. “So, finally. Damn, I thought I’d be happier, that some sort of trumpets would play or…Force of habit. Your Majesty! Thank you. Pavetta, do you hear?”

  “Mhm,” said the princess without raising her eyes.

  “And so,” sighed Calanthe, looking at Geralt with tired eyes, “all's well that ends well. Don't you agree, witcher? The curse has been lifted, two weddings are on their way, it'll take about a month to repair the throne-room, there are four dead, countless wounded and Rain-farn of Attre is half-dead. Let's celebrate. Do you know, witcher, that there was a moment when I wanted to have you—”

  “I know.”

  “But now I have to do you justice. I demanded a result and got one. Cintra is allied to Skellige. My daughter's marrying the right man. For a moment I thought all this would have been fulfilled according to destiny anyway, even if I hadn't had you brought in for the feast and sat you next to me. But I was wrong. Rainfarn's dagger could have changed destiny. And Rainfarn was stopped by a sword held by a witcher. You've done an honest job, Geralt. Now it's a question of price. Tell me what you want.”

  “Hold on,” said Duny, fingering his bandaged side. “A question of price, you say. It is I who am in debt; it's up to me—”

  “Don't interrupt.” Calanthe narrowed her eyes. “Your mother-in-law hates being interrupted. Remember that. And you should know that you're not in any debt. It so happens that you were the subject of my agreement with Geralt. I said we're quits and I don't see the sense of my having to endlessly apologize to you for it. But the agreement still binds me. Well, Geralt. Your price.”

  “Very well,” said the witcher. “I ask for your green sash, Calanthe. May it always remind me of the color of the eyes of the most beautiful queen I have ever known.”

  Calanthe laughed, and unfastened her emerald necklace.

  “This trinket,” she said, “has stones of the right hue. Keep it, and the memory.”

  “May I speak?” asked Duny modestly.

  “But of course, son-in-law, please do, please do.”

  “I still say I am in your debt, witcher. It is my life that Rainfarn's dagger endangered. I would have been beaten to death by the guards without you. If there's talk of a price, then I should be the one to pay. I assure you I can afford it. What do you ask, Geralt?”

  “Duny,” said Geralt slowly, “a witcher who is asked such a question has to ask to have it repeated.”

  “I repeat, therefore. Because, you see, I am in your debt for still another reason. When I found out who you were, there in the hall, I hated you and thought very badly of you. I took you for a blind, bloodthirsty tool, for someone who kills coldly and without question, who wipes his blade clean of blood and counts the cash. But I’ve become convinced that the witcher's profession is worthy of respect. You protect us not only from the evil lurking in the darkness, but also from that which lies within ourselves. It's a shame there are so few of you.”

  Calanthe smiled.

  For the first time that night, Geralt was inclined to believe it was genuine.

  “My son-in-law has spoken well. I have to add two words to what he said. Precisely two. Forgive, Geralt.”

  “And I,” said Duny, “ask again. What do you ask for?”

  “Duny,” said Geralt seriously, “Calanthe, Pavetta. And you, righteous knight Tuirseach, future king of Cintra. In order to become a witcher, you have to be born in the shadow of destiny, and very few are born like that. That's why there are so few of us. We're growing old, dying, without anyone to pass our knowledge, our gifts, on to. We lack successors. And this world is full of Evil which waits for the day none of us are left.”

  “Geralt,” whispered Calanthe.

  “Yes, you're not wrong, queen. Duny! You will give me that which you already have but do not know. I’ll return to Cintra in six years to see if destiny has been kind to me.”

  “Pavetta.” Duny opened his eyes wide. “Surely you're not—”

  “Pavetta!” exclaimed Calanthe. “Are you…are you—?”

  The princess lowered her eyes and blushed. Then replied.

  THE VOICE OF REASON

  5

  “Geralt! Hey! Are you there?”

  He raised his head from the coarse, yellowed pages of The History of the World by Roderick de Novembre, an interesting if controversial work which he had been studying since the previous day.

  “Yes, I am. What's happened, Nenneke? Do you need me?”

  “You've got a guest.”

  “Again? Who's it this time? Duke Hereward himself?”

  “No. It's Dandilion this time, your fellow. That idler, parasite and good-for-nothing, that priest of art, the bright-shining star of the ballad and love poem. As usual, he's radiant with fame, puffed up like a pig's bladder and stinking of beer. Do you want to see him?”

  “Of course. He's my friend, after all.”

  Nenneke, peeved, shrugged her shoulders. “I can't understand that friendship. He's your absolute opposite.”

  “Opposites attract.”

  “Obviously. There, he's coming.” She indicated with her head. “Your famous poet.”

  “He really is a famous poet, Nenneke. Surely you're not going to claim you've never heard his ballads.”

  “I’ve heard them.” The priestess winced. “Yes, indeed. Well, I don't know much about it, but maybe the ability to jump from touching lyricism to obscenities so easily is a talent. Never mind. Forgive me, but I won't keep you company. I’m not in the mood for either his poetry or his vulgar jokes.”

  A peal of laughter and the strumming of a lute resounded in the corridor and there, on the threshold of the library, stood Dandilion in a lilac jerkin with lace cuffs, his hat askew. The troubadour bowed exaggeratedly at the sight of Nenneke, the heron feather pinned to his hat sweeping the floor.

  “My deepest respects, venerable mother,” he whined stupidly. “Praise be the Great Melitele and her priestesses, the springs of virtue and wisdom—”

  “Stop talking bullshit,” snorted Nenneke. “And don't call me mother. The very idea that you could be my son fills me with horror.”

  She turned on her heel and left, her trailing robe rustling. Dandilion, aping her, sketched a parody bow.

  “She hasn't changed a bit,” he said cheerfully. “She still can't take a joke. She's furious because I chatted a bit to the gatekeeper when I got here, a pretty blonde with long lashes and a virgin's plait reaching down to her cute little bottom, which it would be a sin not to pinch. So I did and Nenneke, who had just arrived…Ah, what the deuce. Greetings, Geralt.”

  “Greetings, Dandilion. How did you know I was here?”

  The poet straightened himself and yanked his trousers up. “I was in Wyzim,” he said. “I heard about the striga, and that you were wounded. I guessed where you would come to recuperate. I see you're well now, are you?”

  “You see correctly, but try explaining that to Nenneke. Sit, let's talk.”

  Dandilion sat and peeped into the book lying on the lectern. “History?” He smiled. “Roderick de Novembre? I’ve read him, I have. History was second on my list of favorite subjects when I was studying at the Ac
ademy in Oxenfurt.”

  “What was first?”

  “Geography,” said the poet seriously. “The atlas was bigger and it was easier to hide a demijohn of vodka behind it.”

  Geralt laughed dryly, got up, removed Lunin and Tyrss's The Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy from the shelf and pulled a round-bellied vessel wrapped in straw from behind the bulky volume and into the light of day.

  “Oho.” The bard visibly cheered up. “Wisdom and inspiration, I see, are still to be found in libraries. Oooh! I like this! Plum, isn't it? Yes, this is true alchemy. This is a philosopher's stone well worth studying. Your health, brother. Ooooh, it's strong as the plague!”

  “What brings you here?” Geralt took the demijohn over from the poet, took a sip and started to cough, fingering his bandaged neck. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. That is, I could go where you're going. I could keep you company. Do you intend staying here long?”

  “Not long. The local duke let it be known I’m not welcome.”

  “Hereward?” Dandilion knew all the kings, princes, lords and feudal lords from Jaruga to the Dragon Mountains. “Don't you give a damn. He won't dare fall foul of Nenneke, or Melitele. The people would set fire to his castle.”

  “I don't want any trouble. And I’ve been sitting here for too long anyway. I’m going south, Dandilion. Far south. I won't find any work here. Civilization. What the hell do they need a witcher here for? When I ask after employment, they look at me as if I’m a freak.”

  “What are you talking about? What civilization? I crossed Buina a week ago and heard all sorts of stories as I rode through the country. Apparently there are water sprites here, myriapodans, chimera, flying drakes, every possible filth. You should be up to your ears in work.”

  “Stories, well, I’ve heard them too. Half of them are either made up or exaggerated. No, Dandilion. The world is changing. Something's coming to an end.”

  The poet took a long pull at the demijohn, narrowed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Are you crying over your sad fate as a witcher again? And philosophizing on top of that? I perceive the disastrous effects of inappropriate literature, because the fact that the world is changing occurred even to that old fart Roderick de Novembre. The changeability of the world is, as it happens, the only thesis in this treatise you can agree with. But it's not so innovative you have to ply me with it and put on the face of a great thinker—which doesn't suit you in the least.”

  Instead of answering, Geralt took a sip from the demijohn.

  “Yes, yes,” sighed Dandilion anew. “The world is changing, the sun sets, and the vodka is coming to an end. What else, in your opinion, is coming to an end? You mentioned something about endings, philosopher.”

  “I’ll give you a couple of examples,” said Geralt after a moment's silence, “all from two months this side of the Buina. One day I ride up and what do I see? A bridge. And under that bridge sits a troll and demands every passerby pays him. Those who refuse have a leg injured, sometimes both. So I go to the alderman: ‘How much will you give me for that troll?’ He's amazed. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asks. ‘Who will repair the bridge if the troll's not there? He repairs it regularly with the sweat of his brow, solid work, first rate. It's cheaper to pay his toll.’ So I ride on, and what do I see? A forktail. Not very big, about four yards nose-tip to tail-tip. It's flying, carrying a sheep in its talons. I go to the village. ‘How much,’ I ask, ‘will you pay me for the forktail?’ The peasants fall on their knees. ‘No!’ they shout. ‘It's our baron's youngest daughter's favorite dragon. If a scale falls from its back, the baron will burn our hamlet, and skin us.’ I ride on, and I’m getting hungrier and hungrier. I ask around for work. Certainly it's there, but what work? To catch a rusalka for one man, a nymph for another, a dryad for a third…They've gone completely mad—the villages are teeming with girls but they want humanoids. Another asks me to kill a mecopteran and bring him a bone from its hand because, crushed and poured into a soup, it cures impotence—”

  “That's rubbish,” interrupted Dandilion. “I’ve tried it. It doesn't strengthen anything and it makes the soup taste of old socks. But if people believe it and are inclined to pay—”

  “I’m not going to kill mecopterans. Nor any other harmless creatures.”

  “Then you'll go hungry. Unless you change your line of work.”

  “To what?”

  “Whatever. Become a priest. You wouldn't be bad at it with all your scruples, your morality, your knowledge of people and of everything. The fact that you don't believe in any gods shouldn't be a problem—I don't know many priests who do. Become a priest and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m stating the facts.”

  Dandilion crossed his legs and examined his worn sole with interest. “You remind me, Geralt, of an old fisherman who, toward the end of his life, discovers that fish stink and the breeze from the sea makes your bones ache. Be consistent. Talking and regretting won't get you anywhere. If I were to find that the demand for poetry had come to an end, I’d hang up my lute and become a gardener. I’d grow roses.”

  “Nonsense. You're not capable of giving it up.”

  “Well,” agreed the poet, still staring at his sole, “maybe not. But our professions differ somewhat. The demand for poetry and the sound of lute strings will never decline. It's worse with your trade. You witchers, after all, deprive yourselves of work, slowly but surely. The better and the more conscientiously you work, the less work there is for you. After all, your goal is a world without monsters, a world which is peaceful and safe. A world where witchers are unnecessary. A paradox, isn't it?”

  “True.”

  “In the past, when unicorns still existed, there was quite a large group of girls who took care of their virtue in order to be able to hunt them. Do you remember? And the ratcatchers with pipes? Everybody was fighting over their services. But they were finished off by alchemists and their effective poisons and then domesticated ferrets and weasels. The little animals were cheaper, nicer and didn't guzzle so much beer. Notice the analogy?”

  “I do.”

  “So use other people's experiences. The unicorn virgins, when they lost their jobs, immediately popped their cherry. Some, eager to make up for the years of sacrifice, became famous far and wide for their technique and zeal. The ratcatchers…Well, you'd better not copy them, because they, to a man, took to drink and went to the dogs. Well, now it looks as if the time's come for witchers. You're reading Roderick de Novembre? As far as I remember, there are mentions of witchers there, of the first ones who started work some three hundred years ago. In the days when the peasants used to go to reap the harvest in armed bands, when villages were surrounded by a triple stockade, when merchant caravans looked like the march of regular troops, and loaded catapults stood on the ramparts of the few towns night and day. Because it was us, human beings, who were the intruders here. This land was ruled by dragons, manticores, griffins and amphisboenas, vampires and werewolves, striga, kikimoras, chimera and flying drakes. And this land had to be taken from them bit by bit, every valley, every mountain pass, every forest and every meadow. And we didn't manage that without the invaluable help of witchers. But those times have gone, Geralt, irrevocably gone. The baron won't allow a fork-tail to be killed because it's the last draconid for a thousand miles and no longer gives rise to fear but rather to compassion and nostalgia for times passed. The troll under the bridge gets on with people. He's not a monster used to frighten children. He's a relic and a local attraction—and a useful one at that. And chimera, manticores and amphisboenas? They dwell in virgin forests and inaccessible mountains—”

  “So I was right. Something is coming to an end. Whether you like it or not, something's coming to an end.”

  “I don't like you mouthing banal platitudes. I don't like your expression when you do it. What's happening to you? I don't recognize you, Geralt. Ah, plague on it, let's go south as soon
as possible, to those wild countries. As soon as you've cut down a couple of monsters, your blues will disappear. And there's supposed to be a fair number of monsters down there. They say that when an old woman's tired of life, she goes alone and weaponless into the woods to collect brushwood. The consequences are guaranteed. You should go and settle there for good.”

  “Maybe I should. But I won't.”

  “Why? It's easier for a witcher to make money there.”

  “Easier to make money.” Geralt took a sip from the demijohn. “But harder to spend it. And on top of that, they eat pearl barley and millet, the beer tastes like piss, the girls don't wash and the mosquitoes bite.”

  Dandilion chuckled loudly and rested his head against the bookshelf, on the leather-bound volumes.

  “Millet and mosquitoes! That reminds me of our first expedition together to the edge of the world,” he said. “Do you remember? We met at the fête in Gulet and you persuaded me—”

  “You persuaded me! You had to flee from Gulet as fast as your horse could carry you because the girl you'd knocked up under the musicians’ podium had four sturdy brothers. They were looking for you all over town, threatening to geld you and cover you in pitch and sawdust. That's why you hung on to me then.”

  “And you almost jumped out of your pants with joy to have a companion. Until then, you only had your horse for company. But you're right; it was as you say. I did have to disappear for a while, and the Valley of Flowers seemed just right for my purpose. It was, after all, supposed to be the edge of the inhabited world, the last outpost of civilization, the furthest point on the border of two worlds…Remember?”

  “I remember.”

  THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

  I

  Dandilion came down the steps of the inn carefully, carrying two tankards dripping with froth. Cursing under his breath, he squeezed through a group of curious children and crossed the yard at a diagonal, avoiding the cowpats.

  A number of villagers had already gathered round the table in the courtyard where the witcher was talking to the alderman. The poet set the tankards down and found a seat. He realized straight away that the conversation hadn't advanced a jot during his short absence.