The Sword Of Destiny 6

VI

Eithné’s Tree was, naturally, an oak, but it was actually three oaks fused together, still green, not betraying any signs of age, although Geralt reckoned they were at least three hundred years old. The trees were hollow inside and the cavity had the dimensions of a large chamber with a high ceiling narrowing into a cone. The interior was lit by a cresset which did not smoke, and it had been modestly–but not crudely–transformed into comfortable living quarters.

Eithné was kneeling inside on something like a fibrous mat. Ciri sat cross-legged before her, erect and motionless, as though petrified. She had been bathed and cured of her cold, and her huge, emerald eyes were wide open. The Witcher noticed that her little face, now that the dirt and the grimace of a spiteful little devil had vanished from it, was quite pretty.

Eithné was combing the little girl’s long hair, slowly and tenderly.

‘Enter, Gwynbleidd. Be seated.’

He sat down, after first ceremonially going down on one knee.

‘Are you rested?’ the dryad asked, not looking at him, and continuing to comb. ‘When can you embark on your return journey? What would you say to tomorrow morn?’ ‘When you give the order,’ he said coldly. ‘O Lady of Brokilon. One word from you will suffice for me to stop vexing you with my presence in Duén Canell.’ ‘Geralt,’ Eithné slowly turned her head. ‘Do not misunderstand me. I know and respect you. I know you have never harmed a dryad, rusalka, sylph or nymph; quite the opposite, you have been known to act in their defence, to save their lives. But that changes nothing. Too much divides us. We belong to different worlds. I neither want nor am able to make exceptions. For anybody. I shall not ask if you understand, for I know it is thus. I ask whether you accept it.’ ‘What does it change?’

‘Nothing. But I want to know.’

‘I do,’ he confirmed. ‘But what about her? What about Ciri? She also belongs to another world.’ Ciri glanced at him timidly and then upwards at the dryad. Eithné smiled.

‘But not for long,’ she said.

‘Eithné, please. First think it over.’

‘What for?’

‘Give her to me. Let her return with me. To the world she belongs to.’

‘No, White Wolf,’ the dryad plunged the comb into the little girl’s mousy hair again. ‘I shall not. You of all people ought to understand.’ ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Certain tidings from the world even reach Brokilon. Tidings about a certain witcher, who for services rendered occasionally demanded curious vows. “You will give me what you do not expect to find at home.” “You will give me what you already have, but about which you do not know.” Does that sound familiar? After all, for some time you witchers have been trying in this way to direct fate, you have been seeking boys designated by fate to be your successors, wishing to protect yourself from extinction and oblivion. From nihilism. Why, then, are you surprised at me? I care for the fate of the dryads. Surely that is just? A young human girl for each dryad killed by humans.’ ‘By keeping her here, you will arouse hostility and the desire for vengeance, Eithné. You will arouse a consuming hatred.’ ‘Human hatred is nothing new to me. No, Geralt. I shall not give her up. Particularly since she is hale. That has been uncommon recently.’ ‘Uncommon?’

The dryad fixed her huge, silver eyes on him.

‘They abandon sick little girls with me. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, recently even smallpox. They think we are not immune, that the epidemic will annihilate or at least decimate us. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilon cares for its children.’ She fell silent, leaning over, carefully combing out a lock of Ciri’s tangled hair, using her other hand to help.

‘May I,’ the Witcher cleared his throat, ‘turn to the petition, with which King Venzlav has sent me?’ ‘Is it not a waste of time?’ Eithné lifted her head. ‘Why bother? I know perfectly well what King Venzlav wants. For that, I do not need prophetic gifts at all. He wants me to give him Brokilon, probably as far as the River Vda, which, I gather, he considers–or would like to consider–the natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I presume, he is offering me a small and untamed corner of the forest. And probably gives his kingly word and offers kingly protection that that small, untamed corner, that scrap of forest, will belong to me forever and ever and that no one will dare to disturb the dryads there. That the dryads there will be able to live in peace. So what, Geralt? Venzlav would like to put an end to the war over Brokilon, which has lasted two centuries. And in order to end it, the dryads would have to give up what they have been dying in the defence of for two hundred years? Simply hand it over? Give up Brokilon?’ Geralt was silent. He had nothing to add. The dryad smiled.

‘Did the royal proposal run thus, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it was more blunt, saying: “Don’t put on airs, you sylvan monster, beast of the wilderness, relict of the past, but listen to what I, King Venzlav, want. I want cedar, oak and hickory, mahogany and golden birch, yew for bows and pine for masts, because Brokilon is close at hand, and otherwise I have to bring wood from beyond the mountains. I want the iron and copper that are beneath the earth. I want the gold that lies on Craag An. I want to fell and saw, and dig in the earth, without having to listen to the whistling of arrows. And most importantly; I want at last to be a king, one to whom everything bows down in his kingdom. I do not wish for some Brokilon in our kingdom, for a forest I cannot enter. Such a forest affronts me, rouses me to wrath and affords me sleepless nights, for I am a man, we rule over the world. We may, if we wish, tolerate a few elves, dryads or rusalkas in this world. If they are not too insolent. Submit to my will, O Witch of Brokilon. Or perish.”’ ‘Eithné, you admitted yourself that Venzlav is not a fool or a fanatic. You know, I am certain, that he is a just and peace-loving king. The blood shed here pains and troubles him…’ ‘If he stays away from Brokilon not a single drop of blood shall be shed.’

‘You well know…’ Geralt raised his head.’ You well know it is not thus. People have been killed in Burnt Stump, in Eight-Mile, in the Owl Hills. People have been killed in Brugge and on the left bank of the Ribbon. Beyond Brokilon.’ ‘The places you have mentioned,’ the dryad responded calmly, ‘are Brokilon. I do not recognise human maps or borders.’ ‘But the forest was cleared there a hundred summers ago!’

‘What is a hundred summers to Brokilon? Or a hundred winters?’

Geralt fell silent.

The dryad put down the comb and stroked Ciri’s mousy hair.

‘Agree to Venzlav’s proposal, Eithné.’

The dryad looked at him coldly.

‘How shall we profit by that? We, the children of Brokilon?’

‘With the chance of survival. No, Eithné, do not interrupt. I know what you would say. I understand your pride in Brokilon’s sovereignty. Nonetheless, the world is changing. Something is ending. Whether you like it or not, man’s dominion over this world is a fact. Only those who assimilate with humans will survive. The rest will perish. Eithné, there are forests where dryads, rusalkas and elves live peacefully, having come to agreement with humans. We are so close to each other, after all. Men can be the fathers of your children. What will you gain through this war you are waging? The potential fathers of your children are perishing from your arrows. And what is the result? How many of Brokilon’s dryads are pure-blood? How many of them are abducted human girls you have modified? You even have to make use of Frexinet, because you have no choice. I seem to see few tiny dryads, Eithné. I see only her; a little human girl, terrified, dulled by narcotics, paralysed by fear—’ ‘I’m not afraid at all!’ Ciri suddenly cried, assuming her little devil face for a moment. ‘And I’m not parrotised! So you’d better watch your step! Nothing can happen to me here. Be sure! I’m not afraid. My grandmamma says that dryads aren’t evil, and my grandmamma is the wisest woman in the world! My grandmamma… My grandmamma says there should be more forests like this one…’ She fell silent and lowered her head. Eithné laughed.

‘A Child of the Elder Blood,’ she said. ‘Yes, Geralt. There are still being born Children of the Elder Blood, of whom the prophesies speak. And you tell me that something is ending… You worry whether we shall survive—’ ‘The scamp was supposed to marry Kistrin of Verden,’ Geralt interrupted. ‘It’s a pity it will not be. Kistrin will one day succeed Ervyll, and were he influenced by a wife with such views, perhaps he would cease raids on Brokilon?’ ‘I don’t want that Kistrin!’ the little girl screamed shrilly, and something flashed in her green eyes. ‘Kistrin can go and find some gorgeous, stupid material! I’m not material! I won’t be a princess!’ ‘Soft, Child of the Elder Blood,’ the dryad said, hugging Ciri. ‘Don’t shout. Of course you will not be a princess—’ ‘Of course,’ the Witcher interjected caustically. ‘You, Eithné, and I well know what she will be. I see it has already been decided. So it goes. What answer should I take to King Venzlav, O Lady of Brokilon?’ ‘None.’

‘What do you mean, “none”?’

‘None. He will understand. Long ago, long, long ago, before Venzlav was in the world, heralds rode up to Brokilon’s borders. Horns and trumpets blared, armour glinted, and pennants and standards fluttered. “Humble yourself, Brokilon!” they cried. “King Goat Tooth, king of Bald Hillock and Marshy Meadow, orders you to humble yourself, Brokilon!” And Brokilon’s answer was always the same. As you are leaving my Forest, Gwynbleidd, turn around and listen. In the rustle of the leaves you will hear Brokilon’s answer. Pass it on to Venzlav and add that he will never hear another while the oaks still stand in Duén Canell. Not while a single tree still grows or a single dryad still lives here.’ Geralt was silent.

‘You say something is ending,’ Eithné slowly went on. ‘Not true. There are things that never end. You talk of survival? I am fighting to survive. Brokilon endures thanks to my fight, for trees live longer than men, as long as they are protected from your axes. You talk to me of kings and princes. Who are they? Those whom I know are white skeletons lying in the necropolises of Craag An, deep in the forest. In marble tombs, on piles of yellow metal and shining gems. But Brokilon endures, the trees sough above the ruins of palaces, their roots break up the marble. Does your Venzlav recall those kings? Do you, Gwynbleidd? And if not, how can you claim that something is ending? How do you know whose destiny is destruction and whose eternity? What entitles you to speak of destiny? Do you actually know what it is?’ ‘No,’ the Witcher agreed, ‘I do not. But—’

‘If you know not,’ she interrupted, ‘there is no place for any “but”. You know not. You simply know not.’ She was silent, touched her forehead with her hand and turned her face away.

‘When you came here the first time, years ago,’ she said, ‘you did not know either. And Morénn… My daughter… Geralt, Morénn is dead. She fell by the Ribbon, defending Brokilon. I did not recognise her when they brought her to me. Her face had been crushed by the hooves of your horses. Destiny? And today, you, Witcher, who could not give Morénn a child, bring her–the Child of the Elder Blood–to me. A little girl who knows what destiny is. No, it is not knowledge which would suit you, knowledge which you could accept. She simply believes. Say it again, Ciri, repeat what you told me before the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, entered. That witcher who does not know. Say it again, Child of the Elder Blood.’ ‘Your Maj… Venerable lady,’ Ciri said in a voice that cracked. ‘Do not keep me here. I cannot… I want to go… home. I want to return home with Geralt. I must go… With him…’ ‘Why with him?’

‘For he… is my fate.’

Eithné turned away. She was very pale.

‘What do you say to that, Geralt?’

He did not reply. Eithné clapped her hands. Braenn entered the oak tree, emerging like a ghost from the night outside, holding a large, silver goblet in both hands. The medallion around the Witcher’s neck began vibrating rapidly and rhythmically.

‘What do you say to that?’ repeated the silver-haired dryad, standing up. ‘She does not want to remain in Brokilon! She does not wish to be a dryad! She does not want to replace Morénn, she wants to leave, walk away from her fate! Is that right, Child of the Elder Blood? Is that what you actually want?’ Ciri nodded her bowed head. Her shoulders were trembling. The Witcher had had enough.

‘Why are you bullying the child, Eithné? We both know you will soon give her the Water of Brokilon and what she wants will cease to mean anything. Why are you doing this? Why are you doing it in my presence?’ ‘I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove to you that nothing is ending. That everything is only beginning.’ ‘No, Eithné,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m sorry if I’m spoiling this display for you, but I have no intention of watching it. You have gone too far, Lady of Brokilon, desirous to stress the chasm dividing us. You, the Elder Folk, like to say that hatred is alien to you, that it is a feeling known only to humans. But it is not true. You know what hatred is and are capable of hating, you merely evince it a little differently, more wisely and less savagely. But because of that it may be more cruel. I accept your hatred, Eithné, on behalf of all humankind. I deserve it. I am sorry about Morénn.’ The dryad did not respond.

‘And that is precisely Brokilon’s answer, which I am to communicate to Venzlav of Brugge, isn’t it? A warning and a challenge? Clear proof of the hatred and Power slumbering among these trees, by whose will a human child will soon drink poison which will destroy its memory, taking it from the arms of another human child whose psyche and memory have already been annihilated? And that answer is to be carried to Venzlav by a witcher who knows and feels affection for both children? The witcher who is guilty of your daughter’s death? Very well, Eithné, let it be in accordance with your will. Venzlav will hear your answer, will hear my voice, will see my eyes and read everything in them. But I do not have to look on what is to occur here. And I do not want to.’ Eithné still said nothing.

‘Farewell, Ciri,’ Geralt knelt down and hugged the little girl. Ciri’s shoulders were trembling powerfully.

‘Don’t cry. Nothing evil can happen to you here.’

Ciri sniffed. The Witcher stood up.

‘Farewell, Braenn,’ he said to the younger dryad. ‘Good health and take care. Survive, Braenn; live as long as your tree. Like Brokilon. And one more thing…’ ‘Yes, Gwynbleidd?’ Braenn lifted her head and something wet glistened in her eyes.

‘It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. How easy it is to release the bowstring and think, it is not I, not I, it is the arrow. The blood of that boy is not on my hands. The arrow killed him, not I. But the arrow does not dream anything in the night. May you dream nothing in the night either, blue-eyed dryad. Farewell, Braenn.’ ‘Mona…’ Braenn said indistinctly. The goblet she was holding shuddered and the transparent liquid filling it rippled.

‘What?’

‘Mona!’ she wailed. ‘I am Mona! Lady Eithné! I—’

‘Enough of this,’ Eithné said sharply. ‘Enough. Control yourself, Braenn.’

Geralt laughed drily.

‘There you have your destiny, Lady of the Forest. I respect your doggedness and your fight. But I know that soon you will be fighting alone. The last dryad of Brokilon sending dryads–who nonetheless still remember their real names–to their deaths. In spite of everything I wish you fortune, Eithné. Farewell.’ ‘Geralt…’ Ciri whispered, still sitting motionless, with her head lowered. ‘Don’t leave me… all by myself…’ ‘White Wolf,’ Eithné said, embracing the little girl’s hunched back. ‘Did you have to wait until she asked you? Not to abandon her? To remain with her until the end? Why do you wish to abandon her at this moment? To leave her all alone? Where do you wish to flee to, Gwynbleidd? And from what?’ Ciri’s head slumped further down. But she did not cry.

‘Until the end,’ the Witcher said, nodding. ‘Very well, Ciri. You will not be alone. I will be with you. Do not fear anything.’ Eithné took the goblet from Braenn’s trembling hands and raised it up.

‘Can you read Old Runes, White Wolf?’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘Read what is engraved on the goblet. It is from Craag An. It was drunk from by kings whom no one now remembers.’ ‘Duettaeánn aef cirrán Cáerme Gláeddyv. Yn á esseáth.’

‘Do you know what that means?’

‘The Sword of Destiny has two blades… You are one of them.’

‘Stand up, Child of the Elder Blood.’ The dryad’s voice clanged like steel in an order which could not be defied, a will which had to be yielded to. ‘Drink. It is the Water of Brokilon.’ Geralt bit his lips and stared at Eithné’s silver eyes. He did not look at Ciri, who was slowly bringing her lips to the edge of the goblet. He had seen it before, once, long ago. The convulsions, the tremors; the incredible, horrifying, slowly dwindling cry. And the emptiness, torpor and apathy in the slowly opening eyes. He had seen it before.

Ciri drank. A tear rolled slowly down Braenn’s unmoving face.

‘That will do,’ Eithné took the goblet away, placed it on the ground, and stroked the little girl’s hair, which fell onto her shoulders in mousy waves.

‘O Child of the Elder Blood,’ she said. ‘Choose. Do you wish to remain in Brokilon, or do you follow your destiny?’ The Witcher shook his head in disbelief. Ciri was flushed and breathing a little more quickly. And nothing else. Nothing.

‘I wish to follow my destiny,’ she said brightly, looking the dryad in the eyes.

‘Then let it be,’ Eithné said, coldly and tersely. Braenn sighed aloud.

‘I wish to be alone,’ Eithné said, turning her back on them. ‘Please leave.’

Braenn took hold of Ciri and touched Geralt’s arm, but the Witcher pushed her arm away.

‘Thank you, Eithné,’ he said. The dryad slowly turned to face him.

‘What are you thanking me for?’

‘For destiny,’ he smiled. ‘For your decision. For that was not the Water of Brokilon, was it? It was Ciri’s destiny to return home. But you, Eithné, played the role of destiny. And for that I thank you.’ ‘How little you know of destiny,’ the dryad said bitterly. ‘How little you know, Witcher. How little you see. How little you understand. You thank me? You thank me for the role I have played? For a vulgar spectacle? For a trick, a deception, a hoax? For the sword of destiny being made, as you judge, of wood dipped in gold paint? Then go further; do not thank, but expose me. Have it your own way. Prove that the arguments are in your favour. Fling your truth in my face, show me the triumph of sober, human truth, thanks to which, in your opinion, you gain mastery of the world. This is the Water of Brokilon. A little still remains. Dare you? O conqueror of the world?’ Geralt, although annoyed by her words, hesitated, but only for a moment. The Water of Brokilon, even if it were authentic, would have no effect on him. He was completely immune to the toxic, hallucinogenic tannins. But there was no way it could have been the Water of Brokilon; Ciri had drunk it and nothing had happened. He reached for the goblet with both hands and looked into the dryad’s silver eyes.

The ground rushed from under his feet all at once and hurled him on his back. The powerful oak tree whirled around and shook. He fumbled all around himself with his numb arms and opened his eyes with difficulty; it was as though he were throwing off a marble tombstone. He saw above him Braenn’s tiny face, and beyond her Eithné’s eyes, shining like quicksilver. And other eyes; as green as emeralds. No; brighter. Like spring grass. The medallion around his neck was quivering, vibrating.

‘Gwynbleidd,’ he heard. ‘Watch carefully. No, closing your eyes will not help you at all. Look, look at your destiny.’ ‘Do you remember?’

A sudden explosion of light rending a curtain of smoke, huge candelabras heavy with candles, dripping garlands of wax. Stone walls, a steep staircase. Descending the staircase, a green-eyed, mousy-haired girl in a small circlet with an intricately carved gemstone, in a silver-blue gown with a train held up by a page in a short, scarlet jacket.

‘Do you remember?’

His own voice speaking… speaking…

I shall return in six years…

A bower, warmth, the scent of flowers, the intense, monotonous hum of bees. He, alone, on his knees, giving a rose to a woman with mousy locks spilling from beneath a narrow, gold band. Rings set with emeralds–large, green cabochons–on the fingers taking the rose from his hand.

‘Return here,’ the woman said. ‘Return here, should you change your mind. Your destiny will be waiting.’ I shall never return here, he thought. I never… went back there. I never returned to… Whither?

Mousy hair. Green eyes.

His voice again in the darkness, in a gloom in which everything was engulfed. There are only fires, fires all the way to the horizon. A cloud of sparks in the purple smoke. Beltane! May Day Eve! Dark, violet eyes, shining in a pale, triangular face veiled by a black, rippling shock of curls, look out from the clouds of smoke.

Yennefer!

‘Too little,’ the apparition’s thin lips suddenly twist, a tear rolls down the pale cheek, quickly, quicker and quicker, like a drop of wax down a candle.

‘Too little. Something more is needed.’

‘Yennefer!’

‘Nothingness for nothingness,’ the apparition says in Eithné’s voice.

‘The nothingness and void in you, conqueror of the world, who is unable even to win the woman he loves. Who walks away and flees, when his destiny is within reach. The sword of destiny has two blades. You are one of them. But what is the other, White Wolf?’ ‘There is no destiny,’ his own voice. ‘There is none. None. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death.’ ‘That is the truth,’ says the woman with the mousy hair and the mysterious smile. ‘That is the truth, Geralt.’ The woman is wearing a silvery suit of armour, bloody, dented and punctured by the points of pikes or halberds. Blood drips in a thin stream from the corner of her mysteriously and hideously smiling mouth.

‘You sneer at destiny,’ she says, still smiling. ‘You sneer at it, trifle with it. The sword of destiny has two blades. You are one of them. Is the second… death? But it is we who die, die because of you. Death cannot catch up with you, so it must settle for us. Death dogs your footsteps, White Wolf. But others die. Because of you. Do you remember me?’ ‘Ca… Calanthe!’

‘You can save him,’ the voice of Eithné, from behind the curtain of smoke. ‘You can save him, Child of the Elder Blood. Before he plunges into the nothingness which he has come to love. Into the black forest which has no end.’ Eyes, as green as spring grass. A touch. Voices, crying in chorus, incomprehensibly. Faces.

He could no longer see anything. He was plummeting into the chasm, into the void, into darkness. The last thing he heard was Eithné’s voice.

‘Let it be so.’