The Sword Of Destiny 8

VIII

‘No,’ the druid said. ‘Calanthe has changed her plans, she does not want the marriage of Ciri and Kistrin to go ahead now. She has her reasons. Additionally, I presume I don’t have to explain that following that dreadful scandal with the sham ambush on the merchants, King Ervyll has gone down a long way in my estimation, and my estimation matters in the kingdom. No, we won’t even stop off at Nastrog. I’ll take the lass straight to Cintra. Ride with us, Geralt.’ ‘What for?’ The Witcher glanced at Ciri, who was now slumbering beneath a tree, wrapped in Mousesack’s jerkin.

‘You well know what for. That child, Geralt, is linked to you by destiny. For the third time, yes, the third, your paths have crossed. Metaphorically, of course, particularly as regards the previous two occasions. You surely can’t call it coincidence?’ ‘What does it matter what I call it?’ The Witcher smiled wryly. ‘The essence is not in the name, Mousesack. Why ought I to ride to Cintra? I have already been to Cintra; I have already, as you described it, crossed paths. What of it?’ ‘Geralt, you demanded a vow from Calanthe, then from Pavetta and her husband. The vow has been kept. Ciri is the Child of Destiny. Destiny demands…’ ‘That I take the child and turn her into a witcher? A little girl? Take a good look at me, Mousesack. Can you imagine me as a comely lass?’ ‘To hell with witchering,’ the druid said, annoyed. ‘What are you talking about? What has the one to do with the other? No, Geralt, I see that you understand nothing, I shall have to use simple words. Listen, any fool, including you, may demand a vow, may exact a promise, and will not become remarkable because of it. It is the child who is extraordinary. And the bond which comes into being when the child is born is extraordinary. Need I be more clear? Very well, Geralt. From the moment Ciri was born, what you wanted and what you planned to do ceased to matter, and what you don’t want and what you mean to give up doesn’t make any difference either. You don’t bloody matter! Don’t you understand?’ ‘Don’t shout, you’ll wake her up. Our destiny is asleep. And when she awakes… Mousesack, one must occasionally give up… Even the most extraordinary things.’ ‘But you know,’ the druid looked at him coldly, ‘you will never have a child of your own.’ ‘Yes.’

‘And you’re still giving her up?’

‘Yes, I am. I’m surely permitted to, aren’t I?’

‘You are,’ Mousesack said. ‘Indeed. But it is risky. There is an old prophecy saying that the sword of destiny…’ ‘… has two blades,’ Geralt completed the sentence. ‘I’ve heard it.’ ‘Oh, do as you think fit,’ the druid turned his head away and spat. ‘Just think, I was prepared to stick my neck out for you…’ ‘You?’

‘Me. Unlike you, I believe in destiny. And I knew that it is hazardous to trifle with a two-edged sword. Don’t trifle with it, Geralt. Take advantage of the chance which is presenting itself. Turn what connects you to Ciri into the normal, healthy bond of a child with its guardian. For if you do not… Then that bond may manifest itself differently. More terribly. In a negative and destructive way. I want to protect you both from that. If you wanted to take her, I would not protest. I would take upon myself the risk of explaining why to Calanthe.’ ‘How do you know Ciri would want to go with me? Because of some old prophecies?’ ‘No,’ Mousesack said gravely. ‘Because she only fell asleep after you cuddled her. Because she mutters your name and searches for your hand in her sleep.’ ‘Enough,’ Geralt got up, ‘because I’m liable to get emotional. Farewell, bearded one. My compliments to Calanthe. And think something up… For Ciri’s sake.’ ‘You will not escape, Geralt.’

‘From destiny?’ The Witcher tightened the girth of the captured horse.

‘No,’ the druid said, looking at the sleeping child. ‘From her.’ The Witcher nodded and jumped into the saddle. Mousesack sat motionless, poking a stick into the dying campfire.

He rode slowly away, through heather as high as his stirrups, across the hillside leading into the valley, towards the black forest.

‘Geraaalt!’

He turned around. Ciri was standing on the brow of the hill, a tiny, grey figure with windblown, mousy hair.

‘Don’t go!’

She waved.

‘Don’t go!’

She yelled shrilly.

‘Don’t goooo!’

I have to, he thought. I have to, Ciri. Because… I always do.

‘You won’t get away!’ she cried. ‘Don’t go thinking that! You can’t run away! I’m your destiny, do you hear?’ There is no destiny, he thought. It does not exist. The only thing that everyone is destined for is death. Death is the other blade of the two-edged sword. I am the first blade. And the second is death, which dogs my footsteps. I cannot, I may not expose you to that, Ciri.

‘I am your destiny!’

The words reached his ears from the hilltop, more softly, more despairingly.

He nudged the horse with his heel and rode straight ahead, heading deep into the black, cold and boggy forest, as though into an abyss, into the pleasant, familiar shade, into the gloom which seemed to have no end.