The Last Wish

  “Don't you think”—he smiled—“that my lack of faith makes such a trance pointless?”

  “No, I don't. And do you know why?”

  “No.”

  Nenneke leaned over and looked him in the eyes with a strange smile on her pale lips.

  “Because it would be the first proof I’ve ever heard of that a lack of faith has any kind of power at all.”

  A GRAIN OF TRUTH

  I

  A number of black points moving against a bright sky streaked with mist drew the witcher's attention. Birds. They wheeled in slow, peaceful circles, then suddenly swooped and soared up again, flapping their wings.

  The witcher observed the birds for a long time, then—bearing in mind the shape of the land, density of the wood, depth and course of the ravine which he suspected lay in his path—calculated the distance to them, and how long he would take to cover it. Finally he threw aside his coat and tightened the belt across his chest by two holes. The pommel and hilt of the sword strapped across his back peeked over his shoulder.

  “We'll go a little out of our way, Roach,” he said. “We'll take a detour from the highway. I don't think the birds are circling there for nothing.”

  The mare walked on, obedient to Geralt's voice.

  “Maybe it's just a dead elk,” said Geralt. “But maybe it's not. Who knows?”

  There was a ravine, as he had suspected; the witcher scanned the crowns of the trees tightly filling the rift. But the sides of the gully were gentle, the riverbed dry and clear of blackthorns and rotting tree trunks. He crossed it easily. On the other side was a copse of birches, and behind it a large glade, heath and undergrowth, which threw tentacles of tangled branches and roots upward.

  The birds, scared away by the appearance of a rider, soared higher, croaking sharply in their hoarse voices.

  Geralt saw the first corpse immediately—the white of the sheepskin jacket and matt-blue of the dress stood out clearly against a yellowing clump of sedge. He didn't see the second corpse but its location was betrayed by three wolves sitting calmly on their haunches watching the witcher. His mare snorted and the wolves, as if at a command, unhurriedly trotted into the woods, every now and again turning their triangular heads to watch the newcomer. Geralt jumped off his horse.

  The woman in the sheepskin and blue dress had no face or throat, and most of her left thigh had gone. The witcher, not leaning over, walked by her.

  The man lay with his face to the ground. Geralt didn't turn the body over, seeing that the wolves and birds hadn't been idle. And there was no need to examine the corpse in detail—the shoulders and back of the woollen doublet were covered with thick black rivulets of dried blood. It was clear the man had died from a blow to the neck, and the wolves had only found the body afterward.

  On a wide belt next to a short cutlass in a wooden sheath the man wore a leather purse. The witcher tore it off and, item by item, threw the contents on the grass: a tinderbox, a piece of chalk, sealing-wax, a handful of silver coins, a folding shaving-knife with a bone handle, a rabbit's ear, three keys and a talisman with a phallic symbol. Two letters, written on canvas, were damp with rain and dew, smudged beyond readability. The third, written on parchment, was also ruined by damp, but still legible. It was a credit note made out by the dwarves’ bank in Murivel to a merchant called Rulle Asper, or Aspen. It wasn't for a large sum.

  Bending over, Geralt lifted the man's right hand. As he had expected, the copper ring digging into the swollen, blue finger carried the sign of the armorers’ guild: a stylized helmet with visor, two crossed swords and the rune “A” engraved beneath them.

  The witcher returned to the woman's corpse. As he was turning the body over, something pricked him in the finger—a rose, pinned to the dress. The flower had withered but not lost its color: the petals were dark blue, very dark blue. It was the first time Geralt had seen such a rose. He turned the body over completely, and winced.

  On the woman's bare and bloody neck were clear bite marks. And not those of a wolf.

  The witcher carefully backed away to his horse. Without taking his eyes from the forest edge, he climbed into the saddle. He circled the glade twice and, leaning over, looked around, examining the ground closely.

  “So, Roach,” he said quietly, “the case is reasonably clear. The armorer and the woman arrived on horseback from the direction of the forest. They were on their way home from Murivel, because nobody carries an uncashed credit note for long. Why they were going this way and not following the highway? I don't know. But they were crossing the heath, side by side. And then—again, I don't know why—they both dismounted, or fell from, their horses. The armorer died instantly. The woman ran, then fell and died, and whatever attacked her—which didn't leave any tracks—dragged her along the ground, with her throat in its teeth. The horses ran off. This happened two or three days ago.”

  The mare snorted restlessly, reacting to his tone of voice.

  “The thing which killed them,” continued Geralt, watching the forest's edge, “was neither a werewolf nor a leshy. Neither would have left so much for the scavengers. If there were swamps here I’d say it was a kikimora or a vypper…but there aren't any swamps here.”

  Leaning over, the witcher pulled back the blanket which covered the horse's side and uncovered another sword strapped to the saddlebag—one with a shining, ornate guard and black corrugated hilt.

  “Well, Roach. We're taking a roundabout route; we'd better check why this armorer and woman were riding through the forest, not along the highway. If we pass by ignoring such incidents, we won't ever earn enough for your oats, will we?”

  The mare obediently moved forward, across the heath, carefully sidestepping hollows.

  “Although it's not a werewolf, we won't take any risks,” the witcher continued, taking a bunch of dried monkshead from a saddlebag and hanging it by the bit. The mare snorted. Geralt unlaced his tunic a little and pulled out a medallion engraved with a wolf with bared jaws. The medallion, hanging on a silver chain, bobbed up and down in rhythm to the horse's gait, sparkling in the sun's rays like mercury.

  II

  He noticed the red tiles of the tower's conical roof from the summit of a hill as he cut across a bend in the faint trail. The slope, covered with hazel, dry branches and a thick carpet of yellow leaves, wasn't safe to descend on horseback. The witcher retreated, carefully rode down the incline and returned to the main path. He rode slowly, stopped the horse every now and again and, hanging from the saddle, looked out for tracks.

  The mare tossed her head, neighed wildly, stamped and danced on the path, kicking up a storm of dried leaves. Geralt, wrapping his left arm around the horse's neck, swept his right hand—the fingers arranged in the Sign of Axia—over the mount's head as he whispered an incantation.

  “Is it as bad as all that?” he murmured, looking around and not withdrawing the Sign. “Easy, Roach, easy.”

  The charm worked quickly but the mare, prodded with his heel, moved forward reluctantly, losing the natural springy rhythm of her gait. The witcher jumped nimbly to the ground and went on by foot, leading her by the bridle. He saw a wall.

  There was no gap between the wall and the forest, no distinct break. The young trees and juniper bushes twined their leaves with the ivy and wild vines clinging to the stonework. Geralt looked up. At that same moment, he felt a prickle along his neck, as if an invisible, soft creature had latched on to his neck, lifting the hairs there.

  He was being watched.

  He turned around smoothly. Roach snorted; the muscles in her neck twitched, moved under her skin.

  A girl was standing on the slope of the hill he had just climbed down, one arm resting on the trunk of an alder tree. Her trailing white dress contrasted with the glossy blackness of her disheveled hair, falling to her shoulders. She seemed to be smiling, but she was too far away to be sure.

  “Greetings,” he said, raising his hand in a friendly gesture. He took a step toward the girl. She turned
her head a little, following his movements. Her face was pale, her eyes black and enormous. The smile—if it had been a smile—vanished from her face as though wiped away with a cloth. Geralt took another step, the leaves rustled underfoot, and the girl ran down the slope like a deer, flitting between the hazel bushes. She was no more than a white streak as she disappeared into the depths of the forest. The long dress didn't appear to restrict her ease of movement in the least.

  Roach neighed anxiously, tossing her head. Geralt, still watching the forest, instinctively calmed her with the Sign again. Pulling the mare by the bridle, he walked slowly along the wall, wading through burdock up to the waist.

  He came to a sturdy gate, with iron fittings and rusty hinges, furnished with a great brass knocker. After a moment's hesitation Geralt reached out and touched the tarnished ring. He immediately jumped back as, at that moment, the gate opened, squeaking, clattering, and raking aside clumps of grass, stones and branches. There was no one behind it—the witcher could only see a deserted courtyard, neglected and overgrown with nettles. He entered, leading Roach. The mare, still stunned by the Sign, didn't resist, but she moved stiffly and hesitantly after him.

  The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a wall and the remains of some wooden scaffolding. On the fourth side stood the mansion, its façade mottled by a pox of chipped plaster, dirty damp patches, and festooned with ivy. The shutters, with their peeling paint, were closed, as was the door.

  Geralt threw Roach's reins over the pillar by the gate and slowly made his way toward the mansion, following the gravel path past a small fountain full of leaves and rubbish. In the center of the fountain, on a fanciful plinth, a white stone dolphin arched, turning its chipped tail upward.

  Next to the fountain in what, a very long time ago, used to be a flowerbed, grew a rosebush. Nothing but the color of the flowers made this bush unique—but the flowers were exceptional: indigo, with a faint shade of purple on the tips of some of the petals. The witcher touched one, brought his face closer and inhaled. The flowers held the typical scent of roses, only a little more intense.

  The door and all the shutters of the mansion flew open at the same instant with a bang. Geralt raised his head abruptly. Down the path, scrunching the gravel, a monster was rushing straight at him.

  The witcher's right hand rose, as fast as lightning, above his right shoulder while his left jerked the belt across his chest, making the sword hilt jump into his palm. The blade, leaping from the scabbard with a hiss, traced a short, luminous semi-circle and froze, the point aiming at the charging beast.

  At the sight of the sword, the monster stopped short, spraying gravel in all directions. The witcher didn't even flinch.

  The creature was humanoid, and dressed in clothes which, though tattered, were of good quality and not lacking in stylish and useless ornamentation. His human form, however, reached no higher than the soiled collar of his tunic, for above it loomed a gigantic, hairy, bear-like head with enormous ears, a pair of wild eyes and terrifying jaws full of crooked fangs in which a red tongue flickered like flame.

  “Flee, mortal man!” the monster roared, flapping his paws but not moving from the spot. “I’ll devour you! Tear you to pieces!” The witcher didn't move, didn't lower his sword. “Are you deaf? Away with you!” The creature screamed, then made a sound somewhere between a pig's squeal and a stag's bellowing roar, making the shutters rattle and clatter and shaking rubble and plaster from the sills. Neither witcher nor monster moved.

  “Clear off while you're still in one piece!” roared the creature, less sure of himself. “Because if you don't, then—”

  “Then what?” interrupted Geralt.

  The monster suddenly gasped and tilted his monstrous head. “Look at him, isn't he brave?” He spoke calmly, baring his fangs and glowering at Geralt with bloodshot eyes. “Lower that iron, if you please. Perhaps you've not realized you're in my courtyard? Or maybe it's customary, wherever you come from, to threaten people with swords in their own courtyards?”

  “It is customary,” Geralt agreed, “when faced with people who greet their guests with a roar and the cry that they're going to tear you to pieces.”

  “Pox on it!” The monster got himself worked up. “And he'll insult me on top of it all, this straggler. A guest, is he? Pushes his way into the yard, ruins someone else's flowers, plays the lord and thinks that he'll be brought bread and salt. Bah!”

  The creature spat, gasped and shut his jaws. The lower fangs protruded, making him look like a boar.

  “So?” The witcher spoke after a moment, lowering his sword. “Are we going to carry on standing like this?”

  “And what do you suggest instead? Lying down?” snorted the monster. “Put that iron away, I said.”

  The witcher nimbly slipped the weapon into its scabbard and, without lowering his arm, stroked the hilt which rose above his shoulder.

  “I’d prefer you,” he said, “not to make any sudden moves. This sword can always be drawn again, faster than you imagine.”

  “I noticed,” rasped the monster. “If it wasn't for that, you'd have been out of this gate a long time ago, with my bootprint on your arse. What do you want here? How did you get here?”

  “I got lost,” lied the witcher.

  “You got lost,” repeated the monster, twisting his jaws in a menacing grin. “Well, unlose your way. Out of the gate, turn your left ear to the sun and keep walking and you'll soon get back to the highway. Well? What are you waiting for?”

  “Is there any water?” asked Geralt calmly. “The horse is thirsty. And so am I, if that doesn't inconvenience you.”

  The monster shifted from one foot to the other and scratched his ear. “Listen you,” he said. “Are you really not frightened of me?”

  “Should I be?”

  The monster looked around, cleared his throat and yanked up his baggy trousers.

  “Pox on it, what's the harm of a guest in the house? It's not every day I meet someone who doesn't run away or faint at the sight of me. All right, then. If you're a weary but honest wanderer, I invite you in. But if you're a brigand or a thief, then I warn you: this house does what I tell it to. Within these walls I rule!”

  He lifted his hairy paw. All the shutters clattered against the wall once more and deep in the dolphin's stone gullet, something rumbled.

  “I invite you in,” he repeated.

  Geralt didn't move, scrutinizing him.

  “Do you live alone?”

  “What's that to do with you?” said the monster angrily, opening his jaws, then croaked loudly, “Oh, I see. No doubt you'd like to know whether I’ve got forty servants all as beautiful as me. I don't. Well, pox, are you going to make use of my generous invitation? If not, the gate's over there.”

  Geralt bowed stiffly. “I accept your invitation,” he said formally. “I won't slight the right of hospitality.”

  “My house is your house,” the monster said in return, just as formally, although a little offhandedly. “This way please, dear guest. And leave the horse here, by the well.”

  The interior was in need of extensive repair, although it was reasonably clean and tidy. The furniture had been made by skilled craftsmen, if a very long time ago. A pungent smell of dust hung in the dark rooms.

  “Light!” growled the monster, and the torch in its iron bracket burst into flames and sooty smoke.

  “Not bad,” remarked the witcher.

  The monster cackled. “That's it? I see you won't be amazed by any old trick. I told you this house obeys my commands. This way, please. Careful, the stairs are steep. Light!”

  On the stairs, the monster turned. “What's that around your neck, dear guest?”

  “Have a look.”

  The creature took the medallion in his paw, lifted it up to his eyes, tightening the chain around Geralt's neck a little.

  “The animal has an unpleasant expression. What is it?”

  “My guild's badge.”

  “Ah, you make mu
zzles, no doubt. This way, please. Light!”

  The center of the large room, completely devoid of windows, was taken up by a huge oak table, empty apart from an enormous brass candlestick, slowly turning green and covered with trickles of hardened wax. At the monster's command, the candles lit and flickered, brightening the interior a little.

  One wall was hung with weapons, compositions of round shields, crossed partisans, javelins and guisarmes, heavy sabers and axes. Half of the adjacent wall was taken up by an enormous fireplace, above which hung rows of flaking and peeling portraits. The wall facing the entrance was filled with hunting trophies—elks and stag antlers whose branching racks threw long shadows across the grinning mounted heads of wild boar, bear and lynx, over the ruffled and frayed wings of eagles and hawks. The place of honor was filled by a rock dragon's head, tainted brown, damaged and leaking stuffing. Geralt examined it more closely.

  “My grandpa killed it,” said the monster, throwing a huge log into the depths of the fireplace. “It was probably the last one in the vicinity when it got itself killed. Sit, my dear guest. You're hungry?”

  “I won't deny it, dear host.”

  The monster sat at the table, lowered his head, clasped his hairy paws over his stomach, muttered something while twiddling his enormous thumbs, then suddenly roared, thumping the table with his paw. Dishes and platters rattled like pewter and silver, chalices jingled like crystal. There was a smell of roast meat, garlic, marjoram and nutmeg. Geralt did not show any surprise.

  “Yes.” The monster rubbed his hands. “This is better than servants, isn't it? Help yourself, dear guest. Here is some fowl, here some boar ham, here terrine of…I don't know what. Something. Here we have some hazel grouse. Pox, no, it's partridge. I got the spells muddled up. Eat up, eat up. This is proper, real food, don't worry.”

  “I’m not worried.” Geralt tore the fowl in two.

  “I forgot,” snorted the monster, “that you're not timid. What shall I call you?”

  “Geralt. And your name, dear host?”