The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler

  ‘Where are you headed?’ asked Milva, looking around more intently, but still not seeing any wounded or ill elves. ‘To Eight-Mile? To Brokilon?’

  ‘No.’

  She refrained from further questions; she knew them too well. It was enough to glance several times at their motionless, hardened faces, at the exaggerated, pointed calm with which they were preparing their tackle and weapons. One close look into their deep, fathomless eyes was enough. She knew they were going into battle.

  To the south, the sky was darkening, becoming overcast.

  ‘And where are you headed, sor’ca?’ asked Coinneach, then quickly glanced at the buck slung over her horse and smiled faintly.

  ‘South,’ she said coldly, putting him right. ‘Towards Drieschot.’

  The elf stopped smiling.

  ‘Along the human bank?’

  ‘At least as far as Ceann Treise,’ she said, shrugging. ‘When I reach the falls I’ll definitely go back over to the Brokilon side, because…’

  She turned around, hearing the snorting of horses. Fresh Scoia’tael were joining the already unusually large commando. Milva knew these new ones even better.

  ‘Ciaran!’ she shouted softly, without attempting to hide her astonishment. ‘Toruviel! What are you doing here? I’ve only just led you to Brokilon, and you’re already—’

  ‘Ess’creasa, sor’ca,’ Ciaran aep Dearbh said gravely. The bandage swathed around the elf’s head was stained with oozing blood.

  ‘We have no choice,’ Toruviel repeated, dismounting cautiously using one arm, in order to protect the other one, which was still bent in a sling. ‘News has come. We may not remain in Brokilon, when every bow counts.’

  ‘If I had known,’ she said, pouting, ‘I wouldn’t have bothered. I wouldn’t have risked my neck at the ford.’

  ‘News came last night,’ explained Toruviel quietly. ‘We could not… We cannot leave our comrades in arms at a time like this. We cannot. Understand that, sor’ca.’

  The sky had darkened even more. This time Milva clearly heard thunder in the distance.

  ‘Don’t ride south, sor’ca,’ Coinneach Dé/Dá. ‘There’s a storm coming.’

  ‘What can a storm do to me…?’ she broke off and looked at him intently. ‘Ah! So that kind of tidings have reached you, have they? It’s Nilfgaard, is it? They are crossing the Yaruga in Sodden? They are striking Brugge? And that’s why you’re marching?’

  He did not answer.

  ‘Yes, just like it was in Dol Angra,’ she said, looking into his dark eyes. ‘Once again the Nilfgaardian Imperator is sowing mayhem with fire and sword on the humans’ rear lines. And then the Imperator will make peace with the kings and they will slaughter you all. You will burn in the very fire you are starting.’

  ‘Fire purges. And hardens. It must be passed through. Aenyell’hael, ell’ea, sor’ca? In your tongue: a baptism of fire.’

  ‘I prefer another kind of fire,’ Milva said, untying the buck and throwing it down onto the ground at the feet of the elves. ‘The kind that crackles under the spit. Have it, so you won’t fall from hunger on the march. It’s of no use to me now.’

  ‘Aren’t you riding south?’

  ‘I am.’

  I’m going south, she thought, and quickly. I have to warn that fool of a witcher, I have to warn him about what kind of a turmoil he’s getting himself into. I have to make him turn back.

  ‘Don’t go, sor’ca.’

  ‘Give me a break, Coinneach.’

  ‘A storm is coming from the south,’ the elf repeated. ‘A great tempest is coming. And a great fire. Hide in Brokilon, little sister, don’t ride south. You’ve done enough for us, you cannot do any more now. And you do not have to. We have to. Ess’tedd, esse creasa! It is time we left. Farewell.’

  The air around them was heavy and dense.

  * * *

  The tele-projective spell was complicated; they had to cast it together, joining their hands and thoughts. Even then, it turned out to be a devilishly great effort. Because the distance was considerable too.

  Philippa Eilhart’s tightly closed eyelids twitched, Triss Merigold panted and there were beads of sweat on Keira Metz’s high forehead. Only on Margarita Laux-Antille’s face was there no sign of fatigue.

  It suddenly became very bright in the poorly lit chamber and a mosaic of flashes danced across the dark wood panelling. A sphere glowing with a milky light was suspended over the round table. Philippa Eilhart chanted the end of the spell and the sphere descended away from her onto one of the twelve chairs positioned around the table. A vague shape appeared inside the sphere. The image shimmered, as the projection was not very stable. But it quickly became more defined.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Keira muttered, wiping her forehead. ‘Haven’t they heard of glamarye or beautifying spells down in Nilfgaard?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Triss out of the corner of her mouth. ‘They don’t seem to have heard of fashion either.’

  ‘Or of makeup,’ Philippa said softly. ‘But now hush. And don’t stare at her. We must stabilise the projection and welcome our guest. Intensify me, Rita.’

  Margarita Laux-Antille repeated the spell’s formula and Philippa’s movement. The image shimmered several times, lost its foggy vagueness and unnatural gleam, and its contours and colours sharpened. The sorceresses could now look at the shape on the other side of the table even more closely. Triss bit her lip and winked at Keira conspiratorially.

  The woman in the projection had a pale face with poor skin, dull, expressionless eyes, thin blue lips and a somewhat hooked nose. She was wearing a strange, conical and slightly crumpled hat. Dark, not very fresh-looking hair fell from beneath the soft brim. The impressions of unattractiveness and seediness were completed by her shapeless, black, baggy robes, embroidered on the shoulders with frayed silver thread. The embroidery depicted a half-moon within a circle of stars. It was the only decoration worn by the Nilfgaardian sorceress.

  Philippa Eilhart stood up, trying not display her jewellery, lace or cleavage too ostentatiously.

  ‘Honourable Mistress Assire,’ she said. ‘Welcome to Montecalvo. We are immensely pleased that you have agreed to accept our invitation.’

  ‘I did it out of curiosity,’ the sorceress from Nilfgaard said, in an unexpectedly pleasant and melodious voice, straightening her hat involuntarily. Her hand was slim, marked by yellow spots, her fingernails broken and uneven, and clearly bitten.

  ‘Only out of curiosity,’ she repeated. ‘The consequences of which may yet prove catastrophic for me. I would ask for an explanation.’

  ‘I shall do provide one forthwith,’ Philippa nodded, giving a sign to the other sorceresses. ‘But first, however, allow me to call forth projections of the other participants of this gathering and make some introductions. Please be patient for a moment.’

  The sorceresses linked hands again and together began the incantations once more. The air in the chamber hummed like a taut wire as a glowing fog flowed down from the panels on the ceiling, filling the room with a shimmer of shadows. Spheres of pulsing light hung above three of the unoccupied chairs and the outlines of shapes became visible. The first one to appear was Sabrina Glevissig, in a turquoise dress with a provocatively plunging neckline and a large, openwork, standing-up collar, beautifully framing her coiffured hair, which was held in a diamond tiara. Next to her Sheala de Tancarville emerged from the hazy light of the projection, dressed in black velvet sewn with pearls and with her neck draped with silver fox furs. The witch from Nilfgaard nervously licked her thin lips.

  Just you wait for Francesca, thought Triss. When you see Francesca, you black rat, your eyes will pop out of your head.

  Francesca Findabair did not disappoint. Not by her lavish dress, the colour of bull’s blood, nor with her majestic hairstyle, nor her ruby necklace, nor her doe eyes ringed with provocative elven makeup.

  ‘Welcome, ladies,’ Philippa said, ‘to Montecalvo Castle, whither I have invited you to
discuss certain issues of considerable importance. I bemoan the fact that we are meeting in the form of teleprojection. But neither the time, nor the distances dividing us, nor the situation we all find ourselves in permitted a face-to-face meeting. I am Philippa Eilhart, the lady of this castle. As the initiator of this meeting and the hostess, I shall perform the introductions. On my right is Margarita Laux-Antille, the rectoress of the academy in Aretuza. On my left is Triss Merigold of Maribor and Keira Metz of Carreras. Continuing, Sabrina Glevissig of Ard Carraigh. Sheala de Tancarville, who has arrived from Creyden, near Kovir. Francesca Findabair, also known as Enid an Gleanna, the present queen of the Valley of the Flowers. And finally Assire var Anahid of Vicovaro in the Empire of Nilfgaard. And now—’

  ‘And now I bid farewell!’ Sabrina Glevissig screamed, pointing a heavily beringed hand at Francesca. ‘You have gone too far, Philippa! I have no intention of sitting at the same table as that bloody elf – even as an illusion! The blood on the walls and floors of Garstang has not even faded! And she spilled that blood! She and Vilgefortz!’

  ‘I would request you observe etiquette,’ Philippa said, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. ‘And keep calm. Listen to what I have to say, I ask for nothing more. When I finish, each of you shall decide whether to stay or leave. The projection is voluntary, it may be interrupted at any moment. All I ask is that those who decide to leave keep this meeting secret.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Sabrina jumped up so suddenly that for a moment she moved out of the projection. ‘A secret meeting! Clandestine arrangements! To put it bluntly: a conspiracy! And it’s quite clear against whom it is directed. Are you mocking us, Philippa? You demand that we keep a secret from our kings and comrades, whom you did not condescend to invite. And there sits Enid Findabair – reigning in Dol Blathanna by the grace of Emhyr var Emreis – the queen of the elves, who are actively providing Nilfgaard with armed support. If that were not enough, I notice with astonishment that we are joined by a Nilfgaardian sorceress. Since when did the mages of Nilfgaard stop professing blind obedience and slavish servility to imperial rule? What secrets are we discussing here? If she is here, it is with the agreement and knowledge of Emhyr! By his order! As his eyes and ears!’

  ‘I repudiate that,’ Assire var Anahid said calmly. ‘No one knows that I am taking part in this meeting. I was asked to keep it secret, which I have done and will continue to do. For my own sake, as much as yours. For were it to come to light, I would not get out alive. For the servility of the Empire’s mages is based precisely on that. They have the choice of servility or the scaffold. I took a risk, I did not come here as a spy. I can only prove it in one way: through my own death. It would be sufficient for the secrecy that Madam Eilhart is appealing for to be broken. It would be sufficient for news of our meeting to go beyond these walls, for me to lose my life.’

  ‘Betrayal of the secret could also have unpleasant consequences for me,’ Francesca said, smiling charmingly. ‘You have a wonderful opportunity for revenge, Sabrina.’

  ‘My revenge will come about in other ways, elf,’ said Sabrina, and her black eyes flashed ominously. ‘Should the secret come to light, it won’t be my fault or through my carelessness. By no means mine!’

  ‘Are you suggesting something?’

  ‘Of course,’ interrupted Philippa Eilhart. ‘Of course Sabrina is. She is subtly reminding you about my collaboration with Sigismund Dijkstra. As though she didn’t have any contact with King Henselt’s intelligence service!’

  ‘There is a difference,’ Sabrina barked. ‘I wasn’t his lover for three years! Nor that of his intelligence service, for that matter!’

  ‘Enough of this! Be quiet!’

  ‘I support that,’ Sheala de Tancarville suddenly said in a loud voice. ‘Be quiet, Sabrina. That’s enough about Thanedd, enough about spying and extramarital affairs. I did not come here to take part in arguments or to listen to old resentments and insults being traded. Not am I interested in being your mediator. And if I was invited with that intention, I declare that those efforts were in vain. Indeed, I have my suspicions that I am participating in vain and without purpose, that I am wasting time, which I only wrested with difficulty from my scholarly work. I shall, however, refrain from presuppositions. I propose that we give the floor to Philippa Eilhart. Let us discover the aim of this gathering. Let us learn the roles we are expected to play here. Then we shall decide – without unnecessary emotion – whether to continue with the performance or let the curtain fall. The discretion we have been asked for binds us all. Along with the measures that I, Sheala de Tancarville, will personally take against the indiscrete.’

  None of the sorceresses moved or spoke. Triss did not doubt Sheala’s warning for a second. The recluse from Kovir was not one to make hollow threats.

  ‘We give you the floor, Philippa. And I ask the honourable gathering to remain quiet until she indicates that she has finished.’

  Philippa Eilhart stood up, her dress rustling.

  ‘Distinguished sisters,’ she said. ‘Our situation is grave. Magic is under threat. The tragic events on Thanedd, to which my thoughts return with regret and reluctance, proved that the effects of hundreds of years of apparently peaceful cooperation could be laid waste to in an instant, as self-interest and inflated ambitions came to the fore. We now have a hiatus, disorder, mutual hostility and mistrust. Events are beginning to get out of control. In order to regain control, in order to prevent a cataclysm happen, the helm of this storm-tossed ship should be grasped by strong hands. Mistress Laux-Antille, Mistress Merigold, Mistress Metz and I have discussed the matter and we are in agreement. It is not enough to re-establish the Chapter and the Council, which were destroyed on Thanedd. In any case, there is no one left to rebuild the two institutions, no guarantee that should they be rebuilt they would not be infected with the disease that destroyed the previous ones. An utterly new, secret organisation should be founded which will exclusively serve matters of magic. Which will do everything to prevent a cataclysm. For if magic were to perish, the world would perish with it. Just as happened many centuries ago, a world without magic and the progress it brought with it will be plunged into chaos and darkness; will drown in blood and barbarity. We invite the ladies present here to take part in our initiative: to actively participate in the work proposed by this secret gathering. We took the decision to summon you here in order to hear your opinions in this matter. With this, I have finished.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sheala de Tancarville said, nodding. ‘If you will allow, ladies, I shall begin. My first question, dear Philippa, is: why me? Why have I been summoned here? Many times have I refused to have my candidature to the Chapter put forward, and I resigned from my seat in the Court. Firstly, my work absorbs me. Secondly, I considered and continue to consider that there are others in Kovir, Poviss and Hengfors more worthy of these honours. So I ask why I have been invited here, and not Carduin. Not Istredd of Aedd Gynyael, not Tugdual or Zangenis?’

  ‘Because they are men,’ replied Philippa. ‘This organisation will consist exclusively of women. Mistress Assire?’

  ‘I withdraw my question,’ the Nilfgaardian witch smiled. ‘It was coincident with the substance of Mistress De Tancarville’s. The answer satisfies me.’

  ‘It smacks to me of female chauvinism,’ Sabrina Glevissig said with a sneer. ‘Particularly coming from your lips, Philippa, after your change in… sexual orientation. I have nothing against men. I’d go further; I adore men and I cannot imagine life without them. But… after a moment’s reflection… Yours is actually a reasonable proposal. Men are psychologically unstable, too prone to emotions; not to be relied upon in moments of crisis.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ Margarita Laux-Antille admitted calmly. ‘I often compare the results of the novices from Aretuza with those of the boys from the school in Ban Ard, and the comparisons are invariably to the girls’ credit. Magic requires patience, delicacy, intelligence, prudence, and perseverance, not to mention the humb
le, but calm, endurance of defeats and failures. Ambition is the undoing of men. They always want what they know to be impossible and unattainable. And they are unaware of the attainable.’

  ‘Enough, enough, enough,’ Sheala bridled, making no effort to hid a smile. ‘There is nothing worse than chauvinism underpinned by scholarship. You ought to be ashamed, Rita. Nonetheless… Yes, I also consider the proposed single-sex structure of this… convent or perhaps, if you will, this lodge, justified. As we have heard, it concerns the future of magic, and magic is too important a matter to entrust its fate to men.’

  ‘If I may,’ came the melodious voice of Francesca Findabair, ‘I should like to interrupt these digressions about the natural and undeniable domination of our sex for a moment, and focus on matters concerning the proposed initiative, the goal of which is still not entirely clear to me. For the moment chosen is not accidental and gives food for thought. A war is being waged. Nilfgaard has crushed the northern kingdoms and nailed them down. Is there not then, concealed beneath the vague slogans I have heard here, the understandable desire to reverse that state of affairs? To defeat and nail down Nilfgaard? And then to tan the hides of the insolent elves? If that is so, my dear Philippa, we shall not find common grounds for agreement.’

  ‘Is that the reason I have been invited here?’ Assire var Anahid asked. ‘I do not devote much attention to politics, but I know that the imperial army is seizing the advantage over your armies in this war. Apart from Mistresses Francesca and de Tancarville, who represents a neutral kingdom, all of you ladies represent kingdoms which are hostile to the Nilfgaardian Empire. How am I to understand these words of magical solidarity? As an incitement to treachery? I’m sorry, but I cannot see myself in such a role.’

  On finishing her speech, Assire leant forward, as though touching something which was outside the frame of the projection. It seemed to Triss she could hear miaouing.