Something More 4

IV

‘Don’t move, sir. I must change your dressing. The wound is getting messy and your leg is swelling something terrible. Ye Gods, it looks hideous… We must find a doctor as fast as we can…’ ‘Fuck the doctor,’ the Witcher groaned. ‘Hand me the chest, Yurga. Yes, that flacon there… Pour it straight onto the wound. Oh, bloody hell! It’s nothing, nothing, keep pouring… Oooow! Right. Bandage it up well and cover me…’ ‘It’s swollen, sir, the whole thigh. And you’re burning with fever—’ ‘Fuck the fever. Yurga?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I forgot to thank you…’

‘It’s not you who should be doing the thanking, sir, but me. You saved my life, you suffered an injury in my defence. And me? What did I do? I bandaged a wounded man, who’d fainted away, and put him on my cart and didn’t leave him to expire. It’s an ordinary matter, Witcher, sir.’ ‘It’s not so ordinary, Yurga. I’ve been left… in similar situations… Like a dog…’ The merchant, lowering his head, said nothing.

‘Well, what can I say, it’s a base world,’ he finally muttered. ‘But that’s no reason for us all to become despicable. What we need is kindness. My father taught me that and I teach it to my sons.’ The Witcher was silent, and observed the branches of the trees above the road, sliding past as the cart went on. His thigh throbbed. He felt no pain.

‘Where are we?’

‘We’ve forded the River Trava, now we’re in the Groundcherry Forests. It’s no longer Temeria, but Sodden. You were asleep when we crossed the border, when the customs officers were rummaging in the cart. I’ll tell you, though, they were astonished by you. But their senior officer knew you and ordered us through without delay.’ ‘He knew me?’

‘Aye, there’s no doubt. He called you Geralt. That’s what he said; Geralt of Rivia. Is that your name?’ ‘It is…’

‘And he promised to send a man ahead with the tidings that a doctor is needed. And I gave him a little something so as he wouldn’t forget.’ ‘Thank you, Yurga.’

‘No, Witcher, sir. I’ve already said, it’s me as thanks you. And not just that. I’m also in your debt. We have an agreement… What is it, sir? Are you feeling faint?’ ‘Yurga… The flacon with the green seal…’

‘Sir… You’ll start… You were calling out dreadfully in your sleep…’ ‘I must, Yurga…’

‘As you wish. Wait, I’ll pour it into a bowl right away… By the Gods, we need a doctor as quickly as possible, otherwise…’ The Witcher turned his head away. He heard

the cries of children playing in a dried-up, inner moat surrounding the castle grounds. There were around ten of them. The youngsters were making an ear-splitting din, outshouting each other in shrill, excited voices which kept breaking into falsetto. They were running to and fro along the bottom of the moat, like a shoal of swift little fishes, unexpectedly and very quickly changing direction, but always staying together. As usual, behind the screeching older boys, as skinny as scarecrows, ran a little child, panting and quite incapable of catching up.

‘There are plenty of them,’ the Witcher observed.

Mousesack smiled sourly, tugging at his beard, and shrugged.

‘Aye, plenty.’

‘And which of them… Which of these boys is the celebrated Child of Destiny?’ The druid looked away.

‘I am forbidden, Geralt…’

‘Calanthe?’

‘Of course. You cannot have deluded yourself that she would give the child up so easily? You have met her, after all. She is a woman of iron. I shall tell you something, something I ought not to say, in the hope that you’ll understand. I hope too, that you will not betray me before her.’ ‘Speak.’

‘When the child was born six years ago she summoned me and ordered me to cheat you. And kill it.’ ‘You refused.’

‘No one refuses Calanthe,’ Mousesack said, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘I was prepared to take to the road when she summoned me once again. She retracted the order, without a word of explanation. Be cautious when you talk to her.’ ‘I shall. Mousesack, tell me, what happened to Duny and Pavetta?’ ‘They were sailing from Skellige to Cintra. They were surprised by a storm. Not a single splinter was found of the ship. Geralt… That the child was not with them then is an incredibly queer matter. Inexplicable. They were meant to take it with them but at the last moment did not. No one knows why, Pavetta could never be parted from—’ ‘How did Calanthe bear it?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Of course.’

Shrieking like a band of goblins, the boys hurtled upwards and flashed beside them. Geralt noticed that not far behind the head of the rushing herd hurried a little girl, as thin and clamorous as the boys, only with a fair plait waving behind her. Howling wildly, the band spilled down the moat’s steep slope again. At least half of them, including the girl, slid down on their behinds. The smallest one, still unable to keep up, fell over, rolled down to the bottom and began crying loudly, clutching a grazed knee. The other boys surrounded him, jeering and mocking, and then ran on. The little girl knelt by the little boy, hugged him and wiped away his tears, smudging dust and dirt over his face.

‘Let us go, Geralt. The queen awaits.’

‘Let’s go, Mousesack.’

Calanthe was sitting on a large bench suspended on chains from the bough of a huge linden tree. She appeared to be dozing, but that was belied by an occasional push of her foot to swing the bench every now and again. There were three young women with her. One of them was sitting on the grass beside the swing, her spread-out dress shining bright white against the green like a patch of snow. The other two were not far away, chatting as they cautiously pulled apart the branches on some raspberry bushes.

‘Ma’am,’ Mousesack bowed.

The queen raised her head. Geralt went down on one knee.

‘Witcher,’ she said drily.

As in the past she was decorated with emeralds, which matched her green dress. And the colour of her eyes. As in the past, she was wearing a narrow, gold band on her mousy hair. But her hands, which he remembered as white and slender, were less slender now. She had gained weight.

‘Greetings, Calanthe of Cintra.’

‘Welcome, Geralt of Rivia. Rise. I’ve been waiting for you. Mousesack, my friend, escort the young ladies back to the castle.’ ‘At your behest, Your Majesty.’

They were left alone.

‘Six years,’ began Calanthe unsmilingly. ‘You are horrifyingly punctual, Witcher.’ He did not comment.

‘There were moments–what am I saying–years, when I convinced myself that you would forget. Or that other reasons would prevent you from coming. No, I did not in principle wish misfortune on you, but I had to take into consideration the none-too-safe nature of your profession. They say that death dogs your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look back. And later… When Pavetta… Do you know?’ ‘I do,’ Geralt bowed his head. ‘I sympathise with all my heart—’ ‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘It was long ago. I no longer wear mourning, as you see. I did, for long enough. Pavetta and Duny… Destined for each other. Until the very end. How can one not believe in the power of destiny?’ They were both silent. Calanthe moved her foot and set the swing in motion again.

‘And so the Witcher has returned after six years, as agreed,’ she said slowly, and a strange smile bloomed on her face. ‘He has returned and demands the fulfilment of the oath. Do you think, Geralt, that storytellers will tell of our meeting in this way, when a hundred years have passed? I think so. Except they will probably colour the tale, tug on heart strings, play on the emotions. Yes, they know how. I can imagine it. Please listen. And the cruel Witcher spake thus: “Fulfil your vow, O Queen, or my curse shall fall on you”. And the queen, weeping fulsomely, fell on her knees before the Witcher, crying: “Have mercy! Do not take the child from me! It is all I have left!”.’ ‘Calanthe—’

‘Don’t interrupt,’ she said sharply. ‘I am telling a story, haven’t you noticed? Listen on. The evil, cruel Witcher stamped his foot, waved his arms and cried: “Beware, faithless one, beware of fate’s vengeance. If you do not keep your vow you will never escape punishment”. And the queen replied: “Very well, Witcher. Let it be as fate wishes it. Look over there, where ten children are frolicking. Choose the one destined to you, and you shall take it as your own and leave me with a broken heart”.’ The Witcher said nothing.

‘In the story,’ Calanthe’s smile became more and more ugly, ‘the queen, I presume, would let the Witcher guess thrice. But we aren’t in a story, Geralt. We are here in reality, you and I, and our problem. And our destiny. It isn’t a fairy story, it’s real life. Lousy, evil, onerous, not sparing of errors, harm, sorrow, disappointments or misfortunes; not sparing of anyone, neither witchers, nor queens. Which is why, Geralt of Rivia, you will only have one guess.’ The Witcher still said nothing.

‘Just one, single attempt,’ Calanthe repeated. ‘But as I said, this is not a fairy tale but life, which we must fill with moments of happiness for ourselves, for, as you know, we cannot count on fate to smile on us. Which is why, irrespective of the result of your choice, you will not leave here with nothing. You will take one child. The one you choose. A child you will turn into a witcher. Assuming the child survives the Trial of the Grasses, naturally.’ Geralt jerked up his head. The queen smiled. He knew that smile, hideous and evil, contemptuous because it did not conceal its artificiality.

‘You are astonished,’ she stated. ‘Well, I’ve studied a little. Since Pavetta’s child has the chance of becoming a witcher, I went to great pains. My sources, Geralt, reveal nothing, however, regarding how many children in ten withstand the Trial of the Grasses. Would you like to satisfy my curiosity in this regard?’ ‘O Queen,’ Geralt said, clearing his throat. ‘You certainly went to sufficient pains in your studies to know that the code and my oath forbid me from even uttering that name, much less discussing it.’ Calanthe stopped the swing abruptly by jabbing a heel into the ground.

‘Three, at most four in ten,’ she said, nodding her head in feigned pensiveness. ‘A stringent selection, very stringent, I’d say, and at every stage. First the Choice and then the Trials. And then the Changes. How many youngsters ultimately receive medallions and silver swords? One in ten? One in twenty?’ The Witcher said nothing.

‘I’ve pondered long over this,’ Calanthe continued, now without a smile. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that the selection of the children at the stage of the Choice has scant significance. What difference does it make, in the end, Geralt, which child dies or goes insane, stuffed full of narcotics? What difference does it make whose brain bursts from hallucinations, whose eyes rupture and gush forth, instead of becoming cats’ eyes? What difference does it make whether the child destiny chose or an utterly chance one dies in its own blood and puke? Answer me.’ The Witcher folded his arms on his chest, in order to control their trembling.

‘What’s the point of this?’ he asked. ‘Are you expecting an answer?’ ‘You’re right, I’m not,’ the queen smiled again. ‘As usual you are quite correct in your deductions. Who knows, perhaps even though I’m not expecting an answer I would like benignly to devote a little attention to your frank words, freely volunteered? Words, which, who knows, perhaps you would like to unburden yourself of, and along with them whatever is oppressing your soul? But if not, too bad. Come on, let’s get down to business, we must supply the storytellers with material. Let’s go and choose a child, Witcher.’ ‘Calanthe,’ he said, looking her in the eyes. ‘It’s not worth worrying about storytellers. If they don’t have enough material they’ll make things up anyway. And if they do have authentic material at their disposal, they’ll distort it. As you correctly observed, this isn’t a fairy tale, it’s life. Lousy and evil. And so, damn it all, let’s live it decently and well. Let’s keep the amount of harm done to others to the absolute minimum. In a fairy tale, I grant you, the queen has to beg the witcher and the witcher can demand what’s his and stamp his foot. In real life the queen can simply say: “Please don’t take the child”. And the Witcher can reply: “Since you ask–I shall not”. And go off into the setting sun. Such is life. But the storyteller wouldn’t get a penny from his listeners for an ending to a fairy tale like that. At most they’d get a kick up the arse. Because it’s dull.’ Calanthe stopped smiling and something he had seen once before flashed in her eyes.

‘What?’ she hissed. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Calanthe. You know what I mean. As I came here, so I shall leave. Should I choose a child? Why would I need one? Do you think it matters so much to me? That I came here to Cintra, driven by an obsession to take your grandchild away from you? No, Calanthe. I wanted, perhaps, to see this child, look destiny in the eyes… For I don’t know myself… But don’t be afraid. I shan’t take it, all you have to do is ask—’ Calanthe sprang up from the bench and a green flame blazed in her eyes.

‘Ask?’ she hissed furiously. ‘Me, afraid? Of you? I should be afraid of you, you accursed sorcerer? How dare you fling your scornful pity in my face? Revile me with your compassion? Accuse me of cowardice, challenge my will? My overfamiliarity has emboldened you! Beware!’ The Witcher decided not to shrug, concluding it would be safer to genuflect and bow his head. He was not mistaken.

‘Well,’ Calanthe hissed, standing over him. Her hands were lowered, clenched into fists bristling with rings. ‘Well, at last. That is the right response. One answers a queen from such a position, when a queen asks one a question. And if it is not a question, but an order, one bows one’s head even lower and goes off to carry it out, without a moment’s delay. Is that clear?’ ‘Yes, O Queen.’

‘Splendid. Now stand up.’

He stood up. She gazed at him and bit her lip.

‘Did my outburst offend you very much? I refer to the form, not the content.’ ‘Not especially.’

‘Good. I shall try not to flare up again. And so, as I was saying, ten children are playing in the moat. You will choose the one you regard as the most suitable, you will take it, and by the Gods, make a witcher of it, because that is what destiny expects. And if not destiny, then know that I expect it.’ He looked her in the eyes and bowed low. ‘O Queen,’ he said. ‘Six years ago I proved to you that some things are more powerful than a queen’s will. By the Gods–if such exist–I shall prove that to you one more time. You will not compel me to make a choice I do not wish to make. I apologise for the form, but not the content.’ ‘I have deep dungeons beneath the castle. I warn you, one second more, one word more and you will rot in them.’ ‘None of the children playing in the moat is fit to be a witcher,’ he said slowly. ‘And Pavetta’s son is not among them.’ Calanthe squinted her eyes. He did not even shudder.

‘Come,’ she finally said, turning on her heel.

He followed her among rows of flowering shrubs, among flower-beds and hedges. The queen entered an openwork summerhouse. Four large wicker chairs stood around a malachite table. A pitcher and two silver goblets stood on the veined table top supported by four legs in the shape of gryphons.

‘Be seated. And pour.’

She drank to him, vigorously, lustily. Like a man. He responded in kind, remaining standing.

‘Be seated,’ she repeated. ‘I wish to talk.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘How did you know Pavetta’s son is not among the children in the moat?’ ‘I didn’t,’ Geralt decided to be frank. ‘It was a shot in the dark.’ ‘Aha. I might have guessed. And that none of them is fit to be a witcher? Is that true? And how were you able to tell that? Were you aided by magic?’ ‘Calanthe,’ he said softly. ‘I did not have to state it or find it out. What you said earlier contained the whole truth. Every child is fit. Selection decides. Later.’ ‘By the Gods of the Sea, as my permanently absent husband would say!’ she laughed. ‘So nothing is true? The whole Law of Surprise? Those legends about children that somebody was not expecting and about the ones who were first encountered? I suspected as much! It’s a game! A game with chance, a game with destiny! But it’s an awfully dangerous game, Geralt.’ ‘I know.’

‘A game based on somebody’s suffering. Why then, answer me, are parents or guardians forced to make such difficult and burdensome vows? Why are children taken from them? After all, there are plenty of children around who don’t need to be taken away from anybody. Entire packs of homeless children and orphans roam the roads. One can buy a child cheaply enough in any village; every peasant is happy to sell one during the hungry gap, for why worry when he can easily sire another? Why then? Why did you force an oath on Duny, on Pavetta and on me? Why have you turned up here exactly six years after the birth of the child? And why, dammit, don’t you want one, why do you say it’s of no use?’ He was silent. Calanthe nodded.

‘You do not reply,’ she said, leaning back in her chair. ‘Let’s ponder on the reason for your silence. Logic is the mother of all knowledge. And what does she hint at? What do we have here? A witcher searching for destiny concealed in the strange and doubtful Law of Surprise. The witcher finds his destiny. And suddenly gives it up. He claims not to want the Child of Destiny. His face is stony; ice and metal in his voice. He judges that a queen–a woman when all’s said and done–may be tricked, deceived by the appearances of hard maleness. No, Geralt, I shall not spare you. I know why you are declining the choice of a child. You are quitting because you do not believe in destiny. Because you are not certain. And you, when you are not certain… you begin to fear. Yes, Geralt. What leads you is fear. You are afraid. Deny that.’ He slowly put the goblet down on the table. Slowly, so that the clink of silver against malachite would not betray the uncontrollable shaking of his hand.

‘You do not deny it?’

‘No.’

She quickly leaned forward and seized his arm. Tightly.

‘You have gained in my eyes,’ she said. And smiled. It was a pretty smile. Against his will, almost certainly against his will, he responded with a smile.

‘How did you arrive at that, Calanthe?’

‘I arrived at nothing,’ she said, without releasing his arm. ‘It was a shot in the dark.’ They both burst out laughing. And then sat in silence among the greenery and the scent of wild cherry blossom, among the warmth and the buzzing of bees.

‘Geralt?’

‘Yes, Calanthe?’

‘Don’t you believe in destiny?’

‘I don’t know if I believe in anything. And as regards… I fear it isn’t enough. Something more is necessary.’ ‘I must ask you something. What happened to you? I mean you were reputedly a Child of Destiny yourself. Mousesack claims—’ ‘No, Calanthe. Mousesack was thinking about something completely different. Mousesack… He probably knows. But he uses those convenient myths when it suits him. It’s not true that I was an unexpected encounter at home, as a child. That’s not how I became a witcher. I’m a commonplace foundling, Calanthe. The unwanted bastard of a woman I don’t remember. But I know who she is.’ The queen looked at him penetratingly, but the Witcher did not continue.

‘Are all stories about the Law of Surprise myths?’

‘Yes. It’s hard to call an accident destiny.’

‘But you witchers do not stop searching?’

‘No, we don’t. But it’s senseless. Nothing has any point.’

‘Do you believe a Child of Destiny would pass through the Trials without danger?’ ‘We believe such a child would not require the Trials.’

‘One question, Geralt. Quite a personal one. May I?’

He nodded.

‘There is no better way to pass on hereditary traits than the natural way, as we know. You went through the Trials and survived. So if you need a child with special qualities and endurance… Why don’t you find a woman who… I’m tactless, aren’t I? But I think I’ve guessed, haven’t I?’ ‘As usual,’ he said, smiling sadly, ‘you are correct in your deductions, Calanthe. You guessed right, of course. What you’re suggesting is impossible for me.’ ‘Forgive me,’ she said, and the smile vanished from her face. ‘Oh, well, it’s a human thing.’ ‘It isn’t human.’

‘Ah… So, no witcher can—’

‘No, none. The Trial of the Grasses, Calanthe, is dreadful. And what is done to boys during the time of the Changes is even worse. And irreversible.’ ‘Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself,’ she muttered. ‘Because it ill behooves you. It doesn’t matter what was done to you. I can see the results. Quite satisfactory, if you ask me. If I could assume that Pavetta’s child would one day be similar to you I wouldn’t hesitate for a moment.’ ‘The risks are too great,’ he said quickly. ‘As you said. At most, four out of ten survive.’ ‘Dammit, is only the Trial of the Grasses hazardous? Do only potential witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, selection also occurs in life, Geralt. Misfortune, sicknesses and wars also select. Defying destiny may be just as hazardous as succumbing to it. Geralt… I would give you the child. But… I’m afraid, too.’ ‘I wouldn’t take the child. I couldn’t assume the responsibility. I wouldn’t agree to burden you with it. I wouldn’t want the child to tell you one day… As I’m telling you—’ ‘Do you hate that woman, Geralt?’

‘My mother? No, Calanthe. I presume she had a choice… Or perhaps she didn’t? No, but she did; a suitable spell or elixir would have been sufficient… A choice. A choice which should be respected, for it is the holy and irrefutable right of every woman. Emotions are unimportant here. She had the irrefutable right to her decision and she took it. But I think that an encounter with her, the face she would make then… Would give me something of a perverse pleasure, if you know what I mean.’ ‘I know perfectly well what you mean,’ she smiled. ‘But you have slim chances of enjoying such a pleasure. I cannot judge your age, Witcher, but I suppose you’re much, much older than your appearance would indicate. So, that woman—’ ‘That woman,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘probably looks much, much younger than I do now.’ ‘A sorceress?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting. I thought sorceresses couldn’t…?’

‘She probably thought so too.’

‘Yes. But you’re right, let’s not discuss a woman’s right to this decision, because it is a matter beyond debate. Let us return to our problem. You will not take the child? Definitely?’ ‘Definitely.’

‘And if… If destiny is not merely a myth? If it really exists, doesn’t a fear arise that it may backfire?’ ‘If it backfires, it’ll backfire on me,’ he answered placidly. ‘For I am the one acting against it. You, after all, have carried out your side of the bargain. For if destiny isn’t a myth, I would have to choose the appropriate child among the ones you have shown me. But is Pavetta’s child among those children?’ ‘Yes,’ Calanthe slowly nodded her head. ‘Would you like to see it? Would you like to gaze into the eyes of destiny?’ ‘No. No, I don’t. I quit, I renounce it. I renounce my right to the boy. I don’t want to look destiny in the eyes, because I don’t believe in it. Because I know that in order to unite two people, destiny is insufficient. Something more is necessary than destiny. I sneer at such destiny; I won’t follow it like a blind man being led by the hand, uncomprehending and naive. This is my irrevocable decision, O Calanthe of Cintra.’ The queen stood up. She smiled. He was unable to guess what lay behind her smile.

‘Let it be thus, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps your destiny was precisely to renounce it and quit? I think that’s exactly what it was. For you should know that if you had chosen, chosen correctly, you would see that the destiny you mock has been sneering at you.’ He looked into her glaring green eyes. She smiled. He could not decipher the smile.

There was a rosebush growing beside the summerhouse. He broke a stem and picked a flower, kneeled down, and proffered it to her, holding it in both hands, head bowed.

‘Pity I didn’t meet you earlier, White Hair,’ she murmured, taking the rose from his hands. ‘Rise.’ He stood up.

‘Should you change your mind,’ she said, lifting the rose up to her face. ‘Should you decide… Come back to Cintra. I shall be waiting. And your destiny will also be waiting. Perhaps not forever, but certainly for some time longer.’ ‘Farewell, Calanthe.’

‘Farewell, Witcher. Look after yourself. I have… A moment ago I had a foreboding… A curious foreboding… that this is the last time I shall see you.’ ‘Farewell, O Queen.’