A Shard Of Ice 4

IV

‘We’ll be able to talk freely here. Sit down, Geralt.’

What was most conspicuous about the workshop was the impressive number of books; they took up most of the space in the large chamber. Bulky tomes filled the bookcases on the walls, weighed down shelves, and were piled high on chests and cabinets. The Witcher judged that they must have cost a fortune. Of course, neither was there any shortage of other typical elements of décor: a stuffed crocodile, dried porcupine fish hanging from the ceiling, a dusty skeleton, and a huge collection of jars full of alcohol containing, it seemed, every conceivable abomination: centipedes, spiders, serpents, toads, and also countless human and non-human parts, mainly entrails. There was even a homunculus, or something that resembled a homunculus, but might just as likely have been a smoked new-born baby.

The collection made no impression on Geralt, who had lived with Yennefer in Vengerberg for six months, and Yennefer had a yet more fascinating collection, even including a phallus of exceptional proportions, allegedly that of a mountain troll. She also possessed a very expertly stuffed unicorn, on whose back she liked to make love. Geralt was of the opinion that if there existed a place less suitable for having sex it was probably only the back of a live unicorn. Unlike him, who considered his bed a luxury and valued all the possible uses of that marvellous piece of furniture, Yennefer was capable of being extremely extravagant. Geralt recalled some pleasant moments spent with the sorceress on a sloping roof, in a tree hollow full of rotten wood, on a balcony (someone else’s, to boot), on the railing of a bridge, in a wobbly boat on a rushing river and levitating thirty fathoms above the earth. But the unicorn was the worst. One happy day, however, the dummy broke beneath him, split and fell apart, supplying much amusement.

‘What amuses you so much, Witcher?’ Istredd asked, sitting down behind a long table overlaid with a considerable quantity of mouldy skulls, bones and rusty ironware.

‘Whenever I see things like that,’ the Witcher said, sitting down opposite the sorceror, pointing at the array of jars, ‘I wonder whether you really can’t make magic without all that stomach-turning ghastliness.’ ‘It’s a matter of taste,’ the sorcerer said, ‘and also of habit. What disgusts one person, somehow doesn’t bother another. And what, Geralt, repels you? I wonder what might disgust someone, who, as I’ve heard, is capable of standing up to his neck in dung and filth? Please do not treat that question as insulting or provocative. I am genuinely fascinated to learn what might trigger a feeling of repugnance in a witcher.’ ‘Does this jar, by any chance, contain the menstrual blood of an undefiled virgin, Istredd? Well it disgusts me when I picture you, a serious sorcerer, with a phial in your hand, trying to obtain that precious liquid, drop by drop, kneeling, so to speak, at the very source.’ ‘Touché,’ Istredd said, smiling. ‘I refer, naturally, to your cutting wit, because as regards the jar’s contents, you were wide of the mark.’ ‘But you do use blood occasionally, don’t you? You can’t even contemplate some spells, I’ve heard, without the blood of a virgin, ideally one killed by a lightning bolt from a clear sky during a full moon. In what way, one wonders, is that blood better than that of an old strumpet, who fell, drunk, from a palisade?’ ‘In no way,’ the sorcerer agreed, a pleasant smile playing on his lips. ‘But if it became common knowledge that that role could actually be played just as easily by hog’s blood, which is much easier to obtain, then the rabble would begin experimenting with spells. But if it means the rabble having to gather and use virgin’s blood, dragon’s tears, white tarantula’s venom, decoction of severed babies’ hands or a corpse exhumed at midnight, many would think again.’ They were silent. Istredd, apparently deep in thought, tapped his fingernails on a cracked, browned skull, which lacked its lower jaw, and ran his index finger over the serrated edge of a hole gaping in the temporal bone. Geralt observed him unobtrusively. He wondered how old the sorcerer might be. He knew that the more talented among them were capable of curbing the ageing process permanently and at any age they chose. Men preferred a mature age, suggesting knowledge and experience, for reasons of reputation and prestige. Women, like Yennefer, were concerned less with prestige and more with attractiveness. Istredd looked no older than a well-earned, robust forty. He had straight, slightly grizzled, shoulder-length hair and numerous wrinkles on his forehead, around his mouth and at the corners of his eyelids. Geralt did not know whether the profundity and wisdom in his benign, grey eyes were natural or brought on by charms. A moment later he concluded that it made no difference.

‘Istredd,’ he interrupted the awkward silence, ‘I came here because I wanted to see Yennefer. Even though she isn’t here, you invited me inside. To talk. About what? About the rabble trying to break your monopoly on the use of magic? I know you include me among that rabble. That’s nothing new to me. For a while I had the impression you would turn out to be different to your confreres, who have often entered into serious conversations with me, in order just to inform me that they don’t like me.’ ‘I have no intention of apologising to you for my–as you call them–confreres,’ the sorcerer answered calmly. ‘I understand them for, just like them, in order to gain any level of proficiency at sorcery, I had to apply myself seriously. While still a mere stripling, when my peers were running around fields with bows, fishing or playing odds and evens, I was poring over manuscripts. My bones and joints ached from the stone floor in the tower–in the summer, of course, because in the winter the enamel on my teeth cracked. I would cough from the dust on old scrolls and books until my eyes bulged from their sockets, and my master, old Roedskilde, never passed up an opportunity to flog me with a knout, clearly believing that without it I would not achieve satisfactory progress in my studies. I didn’t enjoy soldiering or wenching or drinking during the years when all those pleasures taste the best.’ ‘Poor thing,’ the Witcher grimaced. ‘Indeed, it brings a tear to my eye.’

‘Why the sarcasm? I’m trying to explain why sorcerers aren’t fond of village quacks, charmers, healers, wise women and witchers. Call it what you will, even simple envy, but here lies the cause of the animosity. It annoys us when we see magic–a craft we were taught to treat as an elite art, a privilege of the few and a sacred mystery–in the hands of laymen and dilettantes. Even if it is shoddy, pitiable, derisory magic. That is why my confreres don’t like you. Incidentally, I don’t like you either.’ Geralt had had enough of the discussion, of pussyfooting around, of the feeling of anxiety which was crawling over the nape of his neck and his back like a snail. He looked straight into Istredd’s eyes and gripped the edge of the table.

‘It’s about Yennefer, isn’t it?’

The sorcerer lifted his head, but continued to tap the skull on the table with his fingernails.

‘I commend your perspicacity,’ he said, steadily returning the Witcher’s gaze. ‘My congratulations. Yes, it’s about Yennefer.’ Geralt was silent. Once, years ago, many, many years ago, as a young witcher, he had been waiting to ambush a manticore. And he sensed the manticore approaching. He did not see or hear it. He sensed it. He had never forgotten that feeling. And now he felt exactly the same.

‘Your perspicacity,’ the sorcerer went on, ‘will save us a great deal of the time we would have wasted on further fudging. And this way the issue is out in the open.’ Geralt did not comment.

‘My close acquaintance with Yennefer,’ Istredd continued, ‘goes back a long way, Witcher. For a long time it was an acquaintance without commitment, based on longer or shorter, more or less regular periods of time together. This kind of noncommittal partnership is widely practised among members of our profession. It’s just that it suddenly stopped suiting me. I determined to propose to her that she remain with me permanently.’ ‘How did she respond?’

‘That she would think it over. I gave her time to do so. I know it is not an easy decision for her.’

‘Why are you telling me this, Istredd? What drives you, apart from this admirable–but astonishing–candour, so rarely seen among members of your profession? What lies behind it?’ ‘Prosaicness,’ the sorcerer sighed. ‘For, you see, your presence hinders Yennefer in making a decision. I thus request you to remove yourself. To vanish from her life, to stop interfering. In short: that you get the hell out of here. Ideally quietly and without saying goodbye, which, as she confided in me, you are wont to do.’ ‘Indeed,’ Geralt smiled affectedly, ‘your blunt sincerity astonishes me more and more. I might have expected anything, but not such a request. Don’t you think that instead of asking me, you ought rather to leap out and blast me with ball lightning? You’d be rid of the obstacle and there’d just be a little soot to scrape off the wall. An easier–and more reliable–method. Because, you see, a request can be declined, but ball lightning can’t be.’ ‘I do not countenance the possibility of your refusing.’

‘Why not? Would this strange request be nothing but a warning preceding the lightning bolt or some other cheerful spell? Or is this request to be supported by some weighty arguments? Or a sum which would stupefy an avaricious witcher? How much do you intend to pay me to get out of the path leading to your happiness?’ The sorcerer stopped tapping the skull, placed his hand on it and clenched his fingers around it. Geralt noticed his knuckles whitening.

‘I did not mean to insult you with an offer of that kind,’ he said. ‘I had no intention of doing so. But… if… Geralt, I am a sorcerer, and not the worst. I wouldn’t dream of feigning omnipotence here, but I could grant many of your wishes, should you wish to voice them. Some of them as easily as this.’ He waved a hand, carelessly, as though chasing away a mosquito. The space above the table suddenly teemed with fabulously coloured Apollo butterflies.

‘My wish, Istredd,’ the Witcher drawled, shooing away the insects fluttering in front of his face, ‘is for you to stop pushing in between me and Yennefer. I don’t care much about the propositions you’re offering her. You could have proposed to her when she was with you. Long ago. Because then was then, and now is now. Now she’s with me. You want me to get out of the way, make things easy for you? I decline. Not only will I not help you, but I’ll hinder you, as well as my modest abilities allow. As you see, I’m your equal in candour.’ ‘You have no right to refuse me. Not you.’

‘What do you take me for, Istredd?’

The sorcerer looked him in the eye and leaned across the table.

‘A fleeting romance. A passing fascination, at best a whim, an adventure, of which Yenna has had hundreds, because Yenna loves to play with emotions; she’s impulsive and unpredictable in her whims. That’s what I take you for, since having exchanged a few words with you I’ve rejected the theory that she treats you entirely as an object. And, believe me, that happens with her quite often.’ ‘You misunderstood the question.’

‘You’re mistaken; I didn’t. But I’m intentionally talking solely about Yenna’s emotions. For you are a witcher and you cannot experience any emotions. You do not want to agree to my request, because you think she matters to you, you think she… Geralt, you’re only with her because she wants it, and you’ll only be with her as long as she wants it. And what you feel is a projection of her emotions, the interest she shows in you. By all the demons of the Netherworld, Geralt, you aren’t a child; you know what you are. You’re a mutant. Don’t understand me wrongly. I don’t say it to insult you or show you contempt. I merely state a fact. You’re a mutant, and one of the basic traits of your mutation is utter insensitivity to emotions. You were created like that, in order to do your job. Do you understand? You cannot feel anything. What you take for emotion is cellular, somatic memory, if you know what those words mean.’ ‘It so happens I do.’

‘All the better. Then listen. I’m asking you for something which I can ask of a witcher, but which I couldn’t ask of a man. I am being frank with a witcher; with a man I couldn’t afford to be frank. Geralt, I want to give Yenna understanding and stability, affection and happiness. Could you, hand on heart, pledge the same? No, you couldn’t. Those are meaningless words to you. You trail after Yenna like a child, enjoying the momentary affection she shows you. Like a stray cat that everyone throws stones at, you purr, contented, because here is someone who’s not afraid to stroke you. Do you understand what I mean? Oh, I know you understand. You aren’t a fool, that’s plain. You see yourself that you have no right to refuse me if I ask politely.’ ‘I have the same right to refuse as you have to ask,’ Geralt drawled, ‘and in the process they cancel each other out. So we return to the starting point, and that point is this: Yen, clearly not caring about my mutation and its consequences, is with me right now. You proposed to her, that’s your right. She said she’d think it over? That’s her right. Do you have the impression I’m hindering her in taking a decision? That she’s hesitating? That I’m the cause of her hesitation? Well, that’s my right. If she’s hesitating, she clearly has reason for doing so. I must be giving her something, though perhaps the word is absent from the witcher dictionary.’ ‘Listen—’

‘No. You listen to me. She used to be with you, you say? Who knows, perhaps it wasn’t me but you who was the fleeting romance, a caprice, a victim of those uncontrolled emotions so typical of her. Istredd, I cannot even rule out her treatment of you as completely objectionable. That, my dear sorcerer, cannot be ruled out just on the basis of a conversation. In this case, it seems to me, the object may be more relevant than eloquence.’ Istredd did not even flinch, he did not even clench his jaw. Geralt admired his self-control. Nonetheless the lengthening silence seemed to indicate that the blow had struck home.

‘You’re playing with words,’ the sorcerer said finally. ‘You’re becoming intoxicated with them. You try to substitute words for normal, human feelings, which you do not have. Your words don’t express feelings, they are only sounds, like those that skull emits when you tap it. For you are just as empty as this skull. You have no right—’ ‘Enough,’ Geralt interrupted harshly, perhaps even a little too harshly. ‘Stop stubbornly denying me rights. I’ve had enough of it, do you hear? I told you our rights are equal. No, dammit, mine are greater.’ ‘Really?’ the sorcerer said, paling somewhat, which caused Geralt unspeakable pleasure. ‘For what reason?’

The Witcher wondered for a moment and decided to finish him off.

‘For the reason,’ he shot back, ‘that last night she made love with me, and not with you.’

Istredd pulled the skull closer to himself and stroked it. His hand, to Geralt’s dismay, did not even twitch.

‘Does that, in your opinion, give you any rights?’

‘Only one. The right to draw a few conclusions.’

‘Ah,’ the sorcerer said slowly. ‘Very well. As you wish. She made love with me this morning. Draw your own conclusions, you have the right. I already have.’ The silence lasted a long time. Geralt desperately searched for words. He found none. None at all.

‘This conversation is pointless,’ he finally said, getting up, angry at himself, because it sounded blunt and stupid. ‘I’m going.’ ‘Go to hell,’ Istredd said, equally bluntly, not looking at him.