The Sword Of Destiny 3

III

‘Ciri?’

‘Mhm?’ the little girl sniffed and rustled the branches she was lying on.

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘No,’ she sighed. ‘It’s warm today. Yesterday… Yesterday I froze awffy, oh my, how I did.’ ‘It is a marvel,’ Braenn said, loosening the straps of her long, soft boots. ‘A tiny little moppet, but she has covered a long stride of forest. And she got past the lookouts, through the bog and the thicket. She is robust, healthy and stout. Truly, she would come in useful. To us.’ Geralt glanced quickly at the dryad, at her eyes shining in the semi-darkness. Braenn leaned back against a tree, removed her hair-band and let her hair down with a shake of her head.

‘She entered Brokilon,’ she muttered, forestalling his comment. ‘She is ours, Gwynbleidd. We are marching to Duén Canell.’ ‘Lady Eithné will decide,’ he responded tartly. But he knew Braenn was right.

Pity, he thought, looking at the little girl wriggling on the green bed. She’s such a determined rascal! Where have I seen her before? Never mind. But it’s a pity. The world is so big and so beautiful. And Brokilon will now be her world, until the end of her days. And there may not be many. Perhaps only until the day she falls in the bracken, amidst cries and the whistles of arrows, fighting in this senseless battle for the forest. On the side of those who will lose. Who have to lose. Sooner or later.

‘Ciri?’

‘Yes?’

‘Where do your parents live?’

‘I don’t have any parents,’ she sniffed. ‘They drowned at sea when I was tiny.’ Yes, he thought, that explains a lot. A princess, the child of a deceased royal couple. Who knows if she isn’t the third daughter following four sons? A title which in practice means less than that of chamberlain or equerry. A mousy-haired, green-eyed thing hanging around the court, who ought to be shoved out as quickly as possible and married off. As quickly as possible, before she matures and becomes a young woman and brings the threat of scandal, misalliance or incest, which would not be difficult in a shared castle bedchamber.

Her escape did not surprise the Witcher. He had frequently met princesses–and even queens–roaming around with troupes of wandering players, happy to have escaped some decrepit king still desirous of an heir. He had seen princes, preferring the uncertain fate of a soldier of fortune to marriage to a lame or pockmarked princess–chosen by their father–whose withered or doubtful virginity was to be the price of an alliance or dynastic coalition.

He lay down beside the little girl and covered her with his jacket.

‘Sleep,’ he said. ‘Sleep, little orphan.’

‘Orphan? Humph!’ she growled. ‘I’m a princess, not an orphan. And I have a grandmamma. And my grandmamma is a queen, so you’d better be careful. When I tell her you wanted to give me the strap, my grandmamma will order your head chopped off, you’ll see.’ ‘Ghastly! Ciri, have mercy!’

‘Not a chance!’

‘But you’re a good little girl. And beheading hurts awfully. You won’t say anything, will you?’ ‘I will.’

‘Ciri.’

‘I will, I will, I will! Afraid, are you?’

‘Dreadfully. You know, Ciri, you can die from having your head cut off.’ ‘Are you mocking me?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘She’ll put you in your place, you’ll see. No one takes liberties with my grandmamma. When she stamps her foot the greatest knights and warriors kneel before her; I’ve seen it myself. And if one of them is disobedient, then it’s “chop” and off with his head.’ ‘Dreadful. Ciri?’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘I think they’ll cut off your head.’

‘My head?’

‘Naturally. After all, your grandmamma, the queen, arranged a marriage with Kistrin and sent you to Nastrog Castle in Verden. You were disobedient. As soon as you return… it’ll be “chop!” and off with your head.’ The little girl fell silent. She even stopped fidgeting. He heard her smacking her lips, biting her lower lip and sniffing.

‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘Grandmamma won’t let anyone chop off my head, because… Because she’s my grandmamma, isn’t she? Oh, at most I’ll get…’ ‘Aha,’ Geralt laughed. ‘There’s no taking liberties with grandmamma, is there? The switch has come out, hasn’t it?’ Ciri snorted angrily. ‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘We’ll tell your grandmamma that I’ve already whipped you, and you can’t be punished twice for the same crime. Is it a deal?’ ‘You must be silly!’ Ciri raised herself on her elbows, making the branches rustle. ‘When grandmamma hears that you thrashed me, they’ll chop your head off just like that!’ ‘So you are worried for my head then?’

The little girl fell silent and sniffed again.

‘Geralt…’

‘What, Ciri?’

‘Grandmamma knows I have to go home. I can’t be a princess or the wife of that stupid Kistrin. I have to go home, and that’s that.’ You do, he thought. Regrettably, it doesn’t depend on you or on your grandmamma. It depends on the mood of old Eithné. And on my persuasive abilities.

‘Grandmamma knows,’ Ciri continued. ‘Because I… Geralt, promise you won’t tell anybody. It’s a terrible secret. Dreadful, I’m serious. Swear.’ ‘I swear.’

‘Very well, I’ll tell you. My mama was a witch, so you’d better watch your step. And my papa was enchanted, too. It was all told to me by one of my nannies, and when grandmamma found out about it, there was a dreadful to-do. Because I’m destined, you know?’ ‘To do what?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ciri said intently. ‘But I’m destined. That’s what my nanny said. And grandmamma said she won’t let anyone… that the whole ruddy castle will collapse first. Do you understand? And nanny said that nothing, nothing at all, can help with destiny. Ha! And then nanny wept and grandmamma yelled. Do you see? I’m destined. I won’t be the wife of that silly Kistrin. Geralt?’ ‘Go to sleep,’ he yawned, so that his jaw creaked. ‘Go to sleep, Ciri.’ ‘Tell me a story.’

‘What?’

‘Tell me a story,’ she snorted. ‘How am I supposed to sleep without a story? I mean, really!’ ‘I don’t know any damned stories. Go to sleep.’

‘You’re lying. You do. What, no one told you stories when you were little? What are you laughing about?’ ‘Nothing. I just recalled something.’

‘Aha! You see. Go on.’

‘What?’

‘Tell me a story.’

He laughed again, put his hands under his head and looked up at the stars twinkling beyond the branches above their heads.

‘There was once… a cat,’ he began. ‘An ordinary, tabby mouser. And one day that cat went off, all by itself, on a long journey to a terrible, dark forest. He walked… And he walked… And he walked…’ ‘Don’t think,’ Ciri mumbled, cuddling up to him, ‘that I’ll fall asleep before he gets there.’ ‘Keep quiet, rascal. So… he walked and he walked until he came across a fox. A red fox.’ Braenn sighed and lay down beside the Witcher, on the other side, and also snuggled up a little.

‘Very well,’ Ciri sniffed. ‘Say what happened next.’

‘The fox looked at the cat. “Who are you?” he asked. “I’m a cat,” said the cat. “Ha,” said the fox. “But aren’t you afraid, cat, to be roaming the forest alone? What will you do if the king comes a-hunting? With hounds and mounted hunters and beaters? I tell you, cat,” said the fox, “the chase is a dreadful hardship to creatures like you and I. You have a pelt, I have a pelt, and hunters never spare creatures like us, because hunters have sweethearts and lovers, and their little hands and necks get cold, so they make muffs and collars for those strumpets to wear”.’ ‘What are muffs?’ Ciri asked.

‘Don’t interrupt. And the fox went on. “I, cat, know how to outwit them; I have one thousand, two hundred and eighty-six ways to outfox those hunters, so cunning am I. And you, cat, how many ways do you have?”’ ‘Oh, what a fine tale,’ Ciri said, cuddling more tightly to the Witcher. ‘What did the cat say?’ ‘Aye,’ whispered Braenn from the other side. ‘What did the cat say?’ The Witcher turned his head. The dryad’s eyes were sparkling, her mouth was half-open and she was running her tongue over her lips. He could understand. Little dryads were hungry for tales. Just like little witchers. Because both of them were seldom told bedtime stories. Little dryads fell asleep listening raptly to the wind blowing in the trees. Little witchers fell asleep listening raptly to their aching arms and legs. Our eyes also shone like Braenn’s when we listened to the tales of Vesemir in Kaer Morhen. But that was long ago… So long ago… ‘Well,’ Ciri said impatiently. ‘What then?’

‘The cat said: “I, fox, don’t have any ways. I only know one thing; up a tree as quick as can be. That ought to be enough, oughtn’t it?” The fox burst out laughing. “Hah,” he said. “What a goose you are! Flourish your stripy tail and flee, for you’ll perish if the hunters trap you.” And suddenly, from nowhere, the horns began to sound! And the hunters leaped out from the bushes. And they saw the cat and the fox. And they were upon them!’ ‘Oh!’ Ciri sniffed, and the dryad shifted suddenly.

‘Quiet. And they were upon them, yelling: “Have them, skin them! We’ll make muffs out of them, muffs!” And they set the hounds on the fox and the cat. And the cat darted up a tree, like every cat does. Right to the very top. But the hounds seized the fox! And before Reynard had time to use any of his cunning ways, he’d been made into a collar. And the cat meowed from the top of the tree and hissed at the hunters, but they couldn’t do anything to him, because the tree was as high as hell. They stood at the foot of the tree, swearing like troopers, but they had to go away empty-handed. And then the cat climbed down from the tree and slunk calmly home.’ ‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing. That’s the end.’

‘What about the moral?’ Ciri asked. ‘Tales always have a moral, don’t they?’ ‘Hey?’ Braenn said, hugging Geralt even harder. ‘What’s a moral?’ ‘A good story has a moral and a bad one doesn’t,’ Ciri sniffed with conviction.

‘That was a good one,’ the dryad yawned. ‘So it has what it ought to have. You, moppet, should have scurried up a tree from that yghern, like that canny tomcat. Not pondered, but scurried up the tree without a thought. And that is all the wisdom in it. To survive. Not to be caught.’ The Witcher laughed softly.

‘Weren’t there any trees in the castle grounds, Ciri? In Nastrog? Instead of coming to Brokilon you could have skinned up a tree and stayed there, at the very top, until Kistrin’s desire to wed had waned.’ ‘Are you mocking me?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Know what? I can’t stand you.’

‘That’s dreadful. Ciri, you’ve stabbed me in the very heart.’ ‘I know,’ she nodded gravely, sniffing, and then clung tightly to him.

‘Sleep well, Ciri,’ he muttered, breathing in her pleasant, sparrow scent. ‘Sleep well. Goodnight, Braenn.’ ‘Deárme, Gwynbleidd.’

Above their heads a billion Brokilon branches soughed and hundreds of billions of Brokilon leaves rustled.