Something More 7

VII

He walked uphill very slowly, cautiously, listening to the creaking of the sinews and muscles around the magically healed wound. Although it seemed to be completely healed, he continued to protect the leg and not risk resting all his body weight on it. It was hot and the scent of grass struck his head, pleasantly intoxicating him.

The obelisk was not standing in the centre of the hill’s flat top, but was further back, beyond the circle of angular stones. Had he climbed up there just before sunset the shadow of the menhir falling on the circle would have marked the precise diameter, would have indicated the direction in which the faces of the sorcerers had been turned during the battle. Geralt looked in that direction, towards the boundless, undulating fields. If any bones of the fallen were still there–and there were for certain–they were covered by lush grass. A hawk was circling, describing a calm circle on outspread wings. The single moving point in a landscape transfixed in the searing heat.

The obelisk was wide at the base–five people would have had to link hands in order to encircle it. It was apparent that without the help of magic it could not have been hauled up onto the hill. The surface of the menhir, which was turned towards the stone circle, was smoothly worked; runic letters could be seen engraved on it.

The names of the fourteen who fell.

He moved slowly closer. Yurga had been right. Flowers lay at the foot of the obelisk–ordinary, wild flowers–poppies, lupins, mallows and forget-me-nots.

The names of the fourteen.

He read them slowly, from the top, and before him appeared the faces of those he had known.

The chestnut-haired Triss Merigold, cheerful, giggling for no reason, looking like a teenager. He had liked her. And she had liked him.

Lawdbor of Murivel, with whom he had almost fought in Vizima, when he had caught the sorcerer using delicate telekinesis to tamper with dice in a game.

Lytta Neyd, known as Coral. Her nickname derived from the colour of the lipstick she used. Lytta had once denounced him to King Belohun, so he went to the dungeon for a week. After being released he went to ask her why. When, still without knowing the reason, he had ended up in her bed, he spent another week there.

Old Gorazd, who had offered him a hundred marks to let him dissect his eyes, and a thousand for the chance to carry out a post mortem–’not necessarily today’–as he had put it then.

Three names remained.

He heard a faint rustling behind him and turned around.

She was barefoot, in a simple, linen dress. She was wearing a garland woven from daisies on long, fair hair, falling freely onto her shoulders and back.

‘Greetings,’ he said.

She looked up at him with cold, blue eyes, but did not answer.

He noticed she was not suntanned. That was odd, then, at the end of the summer, when country girls were usually tanned bronze. Her face and uncovered shoulders had a slight golden sheen.

‘Did you bring flowers?’

She smiled and lowered her eyelashes. He felt a chill. She passed him without a word and knelt at the foot of the menhir, touching the stone with her hand.

‘I do not bring flowers,’ she said, lifting her head. ‘But the ones lying here are for me.’ He looked at her. She knelt so that she was concealing the last name engraved in the stone of the menhir from him. She was bright, unnaturally, luminously bright against the stone.

‘Who are you?’ he asked slowly.

She smiled and emanated cold.

‘Don’t you know?’

Yes, I do, he thought, gazing into the cold blue of her eyes. Yes, I think I do.

He was tranquil. He could not be anything else. Not anymore.

‘I’ve always wondered what you look like, my lady.’

‘You don’t have to address me like that,’ she answered softly. ‘We’ve known each other for years, after all.’ ‘We have,’ he agreed. ‘They say you dog my footsteps.’ ‘I do. But you have never looked behind you. Until today. Today, you looked back for the first time.’ He was silent. He had nothing to say. He was weary.

‘How… How will it happen?’ he finally asked, cold and emotionless.

‘I’ll take you by the hand,’ she said, looking him directly in the eyes. ‘I’ll take you by the hand and lead you through the meadow. Into the cold, wet fog.’ ‘And then? What is there, beyond the fog?’

‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘There is nothing more.’

‘You dogged my every footstep,’ he said. ‘But struck down others, those that I passed on my way. Why? I was meant to end up alone, wasn’t I? So I would finally begin to be afraid? I’ll tell you the truth. I was always afraid of you; always. I never looked behind me out of fear. Out of terror that I’d see you following me. I was always afraid, my life has passed in fear. I was afraid… until today.’ ‘Until today?’

‘Yes. Until today. We’re standing here, face to face, but I don’t feel any fear. You’ve taken everything from me. You’ve also taken the fear from me.’ ‘Then why are your eyes full of fear, Geralt of Rivia? Your hands are trembling, you are pale. Why? Do you fear the last–fourteenth–name engraved on the obelisk so much? If you wish I shall speak that name.’ ‘You don’t have to. I know what it is. The circle is closing, the snake is sinking its teeth into its own tail. That is how it must be. You and that name. And the flowers. For her and for me. The fourteenth name engraved in the stone, a name that I have spoken in the middle of the night and in the sunlight, during frosts and heat waves and rain. No, I’m not afraid to speak it now.’ ‘Then speak it.’

‘Yennefer… Yennefer of Vengerberg.’

‘And the flowers are mine.’

‘Let us be done with this,’ he said with effort. ‘Take… Take me by the hand.’ She stood up and came closer, and he felt the coldness radiating from her; a sharp, penetrating cold.

‘Not today,’ she said. ‘One day, yes. But not today.’

‘You have taken everything from me—’

‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘I do not take anything. I just take people by the hand. So that no one will be alone at that moment. Alone in the fog… We shall meet again, Geralt of Rivia. One day.’ He did not reply. She turned around slowly and walked away. Into the mist, which suddenly enveloped the hilltop, into the fog, which everything vanished into, into the white, wet fog, into which melted the obelisk, the flowers lying at its foot and the fourteen names engraved on it. There was nothing, only the fog and the wet grass under his feet, sparkling from drops of water which smelled intoxicating, heady, sweet, until his forehead ached, he began to forget and become weary… ‘Geralt, sir! What’s the matter? Did you fall asleep? I told you, you’re weak. Why did you climb up to the top?’ ‘I fell asleep.’ He wiped his face with his hand and blinked. ‘I fell asleep, dammit… It’s nothing, Yurga, it’s this heat…’ ‘Aye, it’s devilish hot… We ought to be going, sir. Come along, I’ll aid you down the slope.’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with me…’

‘Nothing, nothing. Then I wonder why you’re staggering. Why the hell did you go up the hill in such a heat? Wanted to read their names? I could have told you them all. What’s the matter?’ ‘Nothing… Yurga… Do you really remember all the names?’ ‘Certainly.’

‘I’ll see what your memory’s like… The last one. The fourteenth. What name is it?’ ‘What a doubter you are. You don’t believe in anything. You want to find out if I’m lying? I told you, didn’t I, that every youngster knows those names. The last one, you say? Well, the last one is Yoël Grethen of Carreras. Perhaps you knew him?’ Geralt rubbed his eyelid with his wrist. And he glanced at the menhir. At all the names.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t.’