The witcher leapt to her, deftly tripped her up, grabbed her by the waist with one hand and dug the other into her hair at the nape. Yennefer cursed nastily ‘’ and thumped him in the neck with her elbow. He didn't let go of her. The penetrating smell of ozone, created by the curses, didn't kill the smell of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt stilled the sorceress's kicking legs and jumped, raising her straight up to the opalescently flickering nothingness of the lesser portal.
The portal which led into the unknown.
They flew out in a tight embrace, fell onto a marble floor and slid across it, knocking over an enormous candlestick and a table from which crystal goblets, platters of fruit and a huge bowl of crushed ice, seaweed and oysters showered down with a crash. Screams and squeals came from around the room.
They were lying in the very center of a ballroom, bright with candelabra. Richly clad gentlemen and ladies, sparkling with jewels, had stopped dancing and were watching them in stunned silence. The musicians in the gallery finished their piece in a cacophony which grated on the ears.
“You moron!” Yennefer yelled, trying to scratch out his eyes. “You bloody idiot! You stopped me! I nearly had him!”
“You had shit-all!” he shouted back, furious. “I saved your life, you stupid witch!”
She hissed like a furious cat; her palms showered sparks.
Geralt, turning his face away, caught her by both wrists and they rolled among the oysters, seaweed and crushed ice.
“Do you have an invitation?” A portly man with the golden chain of a chamberlain on his chest was looking at them with a haughty expression.
“Screw yourself!” screamed Yennefer, still trying to scratch Geralt's eyes out.
“It's a scandal,” the chamberlain said emphatically. “Verily, you're exaggerating with this teleportation. I’m going to complain to the Council of Wizards. I’ll demand—”
No one ever heard what the chamberlain would demand. Yennefer wrenched herself free, slapped the witcher in the ear with her open palm, kicked him forcefully in the shin and jumped into the fading portal in the wall.
Geralt threw himself after her, catching her hair and belt with a practiced move.
Yennefer, also having gained practice, landed him a blow with her elbow.
The sudden move split her dress at the armpit, revealing a shapely breast. An oyster flew from her torn dress.
They both fell into the nothingness of the portal. Geralt could still hear the chamberlain's voice.
“Music! Play on! Nothing has happened. Please take no notice of that pitiful incident!”
The witcher was convinced that with every successive journey through the portal, the risk of misfortune was multiplying and he wasn't mistaken. They hit the target, Errdil's tavern, but they materialized just under the ceiling. They fell, shattering the stair balustrade and, with a deafening crash, landed on the table. The table had the right not to withstand the blow, and it didn't.
Yennefer found herself under the table. He was sure she had lost consciousness. He was mistaken.
She punched him in the eye and fired a volley of insults straight at him which would do credit to a dwarven undertaker—and they were renowned for their foul language. The curses were accompanied by furious, chaotic blows dealt blindly, randomly.
Geralt grabbed her by the hands and, to avoid being hit by her forehead, thrust his face into the sorceress's cleavage which smelled of lilac, gooseberries and oysters.
“Let me go!” she screamed, kicking like a pony. “You idiot! Let go! The fetters are going to break any moment now. I’ve got to strengthen them or the djinn will escape!”
He didn't answer, although he wanted to. He grasped her even more tightly, trying to pin her down to the floor. Yennefer swore horribly, struggled, and with all her strength, kicked him in the crotch with her knee. Before he could catch his breath, she broke free and screamed an incantation. He felt a terrible force drag him from the ground and hurl him across the hall until, with a violence that near-stunned him, he slammed against a carved two-doored chest of drawers and shattered it completely.
IX
“What's happening there?!” Dandilion, clinging to the wall, strained his neck, trying to see through the downpour. “Tell me what's happening there, dammit!”
“They're fighting!” yelled an urchin, springing away from the tavern window as if he'd burned himself. His tattered friends also escaped, slapping the mud with their bare heels. “The sorcerer and the witch are fighting!”
“Fighting?” Neville was surprised. “They're fighting, and that shitty demon is ruining my town! Look, he's knocked another chimney down. And damaged the brick-kiln! Hey, you get over there, quick! Gods, we're lucky it's raining or there'd be a fire like nobody's business!”
“This won't last much longer,” Krepp said gloomily. “The magical light is weakening, the bonds will break at any moment. Mr. Neville! Order the people to move back! All hell's going to break loose over there at any minute! There'll be only splinters left of that house! Mr. Errdil, what are you laughing at? It's your house. What makes you so amused?”
“I had that wreck insured for a massive sum!”
“Does the policy cover magical and supernatural events?”
“Of course.”
“That's wise, Mr. Elf. Very wise. Congratulations. Hey, you people, get to some shelter! Don't get any closer, if you value your lives!”
A deafening crash came from within Errdil's house, and lightning flashed. The small crowd retreated, hiding behind the pillars.
“Why did Geralt go there?” groaned Dandilion. “What the hell for? Why did he insist on saving that witch? Why, dammit? Chireadan, do you understand?”
The elf smiled sadly. “Yes, I do, Dandilion,” he said. “I do.”
X
Geralt leapt away from another blazing orange shaft which shot from the sorceress's fingers. She was clearly tired, the shafts were weak and slow, and he avoided them with no great difficulty.
“Yennefer!” he shouted. “Calm down! Will you listen?! You won't be able—”
He didn't finish. Thin red bolts of lightning spurted from the sorceress's hands, reaching him in many places and wrapping him up thoroughly. His clothes hissed and started to smolder.
“I won't be able to?” she said through her teeth, standing over him. “You'll soon see what I’m capable of. It will suffice for you to lie there for a while and not get in my way.”
“Get this off me!” he roared, struggling in the blazing spider's web. “I’m burning, dammit!”
“Lie there and don't move,” she advised, panting heavily. “It only burns when you move…I can't spare you any more time, witcher. We had a romp, but enough's enough. I’ve got to take care of the djinn; he's ready to run away—”
“Run away?” Geralt screamed. “It's you who should run away! That djinn…Yennefer, listen to me carefully. I’ve got to tell you the truth.”
XI
The djinn gave a tug at the fetters, traced a circle, tightened the lines holding it, and swept the little tower off Beau Berrant's house.
“What a roar he's got!” Dandilion frowned, instinctively clasping his throat. “What a terrible roar! It looks as if he's bloody furious!”
“That's because he is,” said Krepp. Chireadan glanced at him.
“What?”
“He's furious,” repeated Krepp. “And I’m not surprised. I’d be furious too if I had to fulfill, to the letter, the first wish accidentally expressed by the witcher—”
“How's that?” shouted Dandilion. “Geralt? Wish?”
“He's the one who held the seal which imprisoned the djinn. The djinn's fulfilling his wishes. That's why the witch can't master it. But the witcher mustn't tell her, even if he's caught on to it by now. He shouldn't tell her.”
“Dammit,” muttered Chireadan. “I’m beginning to understand. The warder in the dungeon burst…”
“That was the witcher's second wish. He's still got one left. The
last one. But, gods help us, he shouldn't reveal that to Yennefer!”
XII
She stood motionless, leaning over him, paying no attention to the djinn struggling at its bonds above the tavern roof. The building shook, lime and splinters poured from the ceiling, furniture crept along the floor, shuddering spasmodically.
“So that's how it is,” she hissed. “Congratulations. You deceived me. Not Dandilion, but you. That's why the djinn's fighting so hard! But I haven't lost yet, Geralt. You underestimate me, and you underestimate my power. I’ve still got the djinn and you in my hand. You've still got one last wish, haven't you? So make it. You'll free the djinn and then I’ll bottle it.”
“You haven't got enough strength left, Yennefer.”
“You underestimate my strength. The wish, Geralt!”
“No, Yennefer. I can't…The djinn might fulfill it, but it won't spare you. It'll kill you when it's free. It'll take its revenge on you…You won't manage to catch it and you won't manage to defend yourself against it. You're weakened; you can barely stand. You'll die, Yennefer.”
“That's my risk!” she shouted, enraged. “What's it to you what happens to me? Think rather what the djinn can give you! You've still got one wish! You can ask what you like! Make use of it! Use it, witcher! You can have anything! Anything!”
XIII
“Are they both going to die?” wailed Dandilion. “How come? Krepp, why? After all, the witcher—Why, by all perfidious and unexpected plagues, isn't he escaping? Why? What's keeping him? Why doesn't he leave that bloody witch to her fate and run away? It's senseless!”
“Absolutely senseless,” repeated Chireadan bitterly. “Absolutely.”
“It's suicide. And plain idiocy!”
“It's his job, after all,” interrupted Neville. “The witcher's saving my town. May the gods be my witness—if he defeats the witch and chases the demon away, I’ll reward him handsomely…”
Dandilion snatched the hat decorated with a heron's feather from his head, spat into it, threw it in the mud and trampled on it, spitting out words in various languages as he did.
“But he's…” he groaned suddenly, “still got one wish in reserve! He could save both her and himself! Mr. Krepp!”
“It's not that simple,” the priest pondered. “But if…If he expressed the right wish…If he somehow tied his fate to the fate…No, I don't think it would occur to him. And it's probably better that it doesn't.”
XIV
“The wish, Geralt! Hurry up! What do you desire? Immortality? Riches? Fame? Power? Might? Privileges? Hurry, we haven't any time!” He was silent. “Humanity,” she said suddenly, smiling nastily. “I’ve guessed, haven't I? That's what you want; that's what you dream of! Of release, of the freedom to be who you want, not who you have to be. The djinn will fulfill that wish, Geralt. Just say it.”
He stayed silent.
She stood over him in the flickering radiance of the wizard's sphere, in the glow of magic, amidst the flashes of rays restraining the djinn, streaming hair and eyes blazing violet, erect, slender, dark, terrible…
And beautiful.
All of a sudden she leaned over and looked him in the eyes. He caught the scent of lilac and gooseberries.
“You're not saying anything,” she hissed. “So what is it you desire, witcher? What is your most hidden dream? Is it that you don't know or you can't decide? Look for it within yourself, look deeply and carefully because, I swear by the Force, you won't get another chance like this!”
But he suddenly knew the truth. He knew it. He knew what she used to be. What she remembered, what she couldn't forget, what she lived with. Who she really was before she had become a sorceress.
Her cold, penetrating, angry and wise eyes were those of a hunchback.
He was horrified. No, not of the truth. He was horrified that she would read his thoughts, find out what he had guessed. That she would never forgive him for it. He deadened that thought within himself, killed it, threw it from his memory forever, without trace, feeling, as he did so, enormous relief. Feeling that—
The ceiling cracked open. The djinn, entangled in the net of the now fading rays, tumbled right on top of them, roaring, and in that roar were triumph and murder lust. Yennefer leapt to meet him. Light beamed from her hands. Very feeble light.
The djinn opened his mouth and stretched his paws toward her.
The witcher suddenly understood what it was he wanted.
And he made his wish.
XV
The house exploded. Bricks, beams and planks flew up in a cloud of smoke and sparks. The djinn spurted from the dust-storm, as huge as a barn. Roaring and choking with triumphant laughter, the Air genie, free now, not tied to anyone's will, traced three circles above the town, tore the spire from the town hall, soared into the sky and vanished.
“It's escaped! It's escaped!” called Krepp. “The witcher's had his way! The genie has flown away! It won't be a threat to anyone anymore!”
“Ah,” said Errdil with genuine rapture, “what a wonderful ruin!”
“Dammit, dammit!” hollered Dandilion, huddled behind the wall. “It's shattered the entire house! Nobody could survive that! Nobody, I tell you!”
“The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, has sacrificed himself for the town,” mayor Neville said ceremoniously. “We won't forget him. We'll revere him. We'll think of a statue…”
Dandilion shook a piece of wicker matting bound with clay from his shoulder, brushed his jerkin free of lumps of rain-dampened plaster, looked at the mayor and, in a few well-chosen words, expressed his opinion about sacrifice, reverence, memory and all the statues in the world.
XVI
Geralt looked around. Water was slowly dripping from the hole in the ceiling. There were heaps of rubble and stacks of timber all around. By a strange coincidence, the place where they lay was completely clear. Not one plank or one brick had fallen on them. It was as if they were being protected by an invisible shield.
Yennefer, slightly flushed, knelt by him, resting her hands on her knees.
“Witcher.” She cleared her throat. “Are you dead?”
“No.” Geralt wiped the dust from his face and hissed.
Slowly, Yennefer touched his wrist and delicately ran her fingers along his palm. “I burnt you—”
“It's nothing. A few blisters—”
“I’m sorry. You know, the djinn's escaped. For good.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Not much.”
“Good. Help me up, please.”
“Wait,” she whispered. “That wish of yours…I heard what you wished for. I was astounded, simply astounded. I’d have expected anything but to…What made you do it, Geralt? Why…Why me?”
“Don't you know?”
She leaned over him, touched him. He felt her hair, smelling of lilac and gooseberries, brush his face and he suddenly knew that he'd never forget that scent, that soft touch, knew that he'd never be able to compare it to any other scent or touch. Yennefer kissed him and he understood that he'd never desire any lips other than hers, so soft and moist, sweet with lipstick. He knew that, from that moment, only she would exist, her neck, shoulders and breasts freed from her black dress, her delicate, cool skin, which couldn't be compared to any other he had ever touched. He gazed into her violet eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, eyes which he feared would become…
Everything. He knew.
“Your wish,” she whispered, her lips very near his ear. “I don't know whether such a wish can ever be fulfilled. I don't know whether there's such a Force in Nature that could fulfill such a wish. But if there is, then you've condemned yourself. Condemned yourself to me.”
He interrupted her with a kiss, an embrace, a touch, caresses and then with everything, his whole being, his every thought, his only thought, everything, everything, everything. They broke the silence with sighs and the rustle of clothing strewn on the floor. They broke the silence very gently, lazily, and they were consid
erate and very thorough. They were caring and tender and, although neither quite knew what caring and tenderness were, they succeeded because they very much wanted to. And they were in no hurry whatsoever. The whole world had ceased to exist for a brief moment, but to them, it seemed like a whole eternity.
And then the world started to exist again; but it existed very differently.
“Geralt?”
“Mmm?”
“What now?”
“I don't know.”
“Nor do I. Because, you see, I…I don't know whether it was worth condemning yourself to me. I don't know how—Wait, what are you doing…? I wanted to tell you—”
“Yennefer…Yen.”
“Yen,” she repeated, giving in to him completely. “Nobody's ever called me that. Say it again.”
“Yen.”
“Geralt.”
XVII
It had stopped raining. A rainbow appeared over Rinde and cut the sky with a broken, colored arc. It looked as if it grew straight from the tavern's ruined roof.
“By all the gods,” muttered Dandilion, “what silence…They're dead, I tell you. Either they've killed each other or my djinn's finished them off.”
“We should go and see,” said Vratimir, wiping his brow with his crumpled hat. “They might be wounded. Should I call a doctor?”
“An undertaker, more like it,” said Krepp. “I know that witch, and that witcher's got the devil in his eyes too. There's no two ways about it; we've got to start digging two pits in the cemetery. I’d advise sticking an aspen stake into that Yennefer before burying her.”
“What silence,” repeated Dandilion. “Beams were flying all over the place a moment ago and now it's as quiet as a grave.”
They approached the tavern ruins very cautiously and slowly.
“Let the carpenter get the coffins ready,” said Krepp. “Tell the carpenter—”
“Quiet,” interrupted Errdil. “I heard something. What was it, Chireadan?”
The elf brushed the hair off his pointed ear and tilted his head.