A Question Of Price

A QUESTION OF PRICE

I

The witcher had a knife at his throat.

He was wallowing in a wooden tub, brimful of soapsuds, his head thrown back against its slippery rim. The bitter taste of soap lingered in his mouth as the knife, blunt as a doorknob, scraped his Adam’s apple painfully and moved toward his chin with a grating sound.

The barber, with the expression of an artist who is conscious that he is creating a masterpiece, scraped once more for form’s sake, then wiped the witcher’s face with a piece of linen soaked in tincture of angelica.

Geralt stood up, allowed a servant to pour a bucket of water over him, shook himself and climbed from the tub, leaving wet footmarks on the brick floor.

“Your towel, sir.” The servant glanced curiously at his medallion.

“Thanks.”

“Clothes,” said Haxo. “Shirt, underpants, trousers and tunic. And boots.”

“You’ve thought of everything. But can’t I go in my own shoes?”

“No. Beer?”

“With pleasure.”

He dressed slowly. The touch of someone else’s coarse, unpleasant clothes against his swollen skin spoiled his relaxed mood.

“Castellan?”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“You don’t know what this is all about, do you? Why they need me here?”

“It’s not my business,” said Haxo, squinting at the servants. “My job is to get you dressed—” “Dressed up, you mean.”

“—get you dressed and take you to the banquet, to the queen. Put the tunic on, sir. And hide the medallion beneath it.” “My dagger was here.”

“It isn’t anymore. It’s in a safe place, like your swords and your possessions. Nobody carries arms where you’re going.” The witcher shrugged, pulling on the tight purple tunic.

“And what’s this?” he asked, indicating the embroidery on the front of his outfit.

“Oh yes,” said Haxo. “I almost forgot. During the banquet, you will be the Honorable Ravix of Fourhorn. As guest of honor, you will sit at the queen’s right hand, such is her wish, and that, on the tunic, is your coat of arms. A bear passant sable, damsel vested azure riding him, her hair loose and arms raised. You should remember it—one of the guests might have a thing about heraldry. It often happens.” “Of course I’ll remember it,” said Geralt seriously. “And Fourhorn, where’s that?” “Far enough. Ready? Can we go?”

“We can. Just tell me, Haxo, what’s this banquet in aid of?”

“Princess Pavetta is turning fifteen and, as is the custom, contenders for her hand have turned up in their dozens. Queen Calanthe wants her to marry someone from Skellige; an alliance with the islanders would mean a lot to us.” “Why them?”

“Those they’re allied with aren’t attacked as often as others.”

“A good reason.”

“And not the sole one. In Cintra women can’t rule. King Roegner died some time ago and the queen doesn’t want another husband: our Lady Calanthe is wise and just, but a king is a king. Whoever marries the princess will sit on the throne, and we want a tough, decent fellow. They have to be found on the islands. They’re a hard nation. Let’s go.” Geralt stopped halfway down the gallery surrounding the small inner courtyard and looked around.

“Castellan,” he said under his breath, “we’re alone. Quickly, tell me why the queen needs a witcher. You of all people must know something.” “For the same reasons as everyone else,” Haxo grunted. “Cintra is just like any other country. We’ve got werewolves and basilisks and a manticore could be found, too, if you looked hard enough. So a witcher might also come in useful.” “Don’t twist my words, Castellan. I’m asking why the queen needs a witcher in disguise as a bear passant, with hair loose at that, at the banquet.” Haxo also looked around, and even leaned over the gallery balustrade.

“Something bad’s happening, Geralt,” he muttered. “In the castle. Something’s frightening people.” “What?”

“What usually frightens people? A monster. They say it’s small, hunchbacked, bristling like a Urcheon. It creeps around the castle at night, rattles chains. Moans and groans in the chambers.” “Have you seen it?”

“No,” Haxo spat, “and I don’t want to.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Castellan,” grimaced the witcher. “It doesn’t make sense. We’re going to an engagement feast. What am I supposed to do there? Wait for a hunchback to jump out and groan? Without a weapon? Dressed up like a jester? Haxo?” “Think what you like,” grumbled the castellan. “They told me not to tell you anything, but you asked. So I told you. And you tell me I’m talking nonsense. How charming.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, Castellan. I was simply surprised…”

“Stop being surprised.” Haxo turned away, still sulking. “Your job isn’t to be surprised. And I strongly advise you, witcher, that if the queen orders you to strip naked, paint your arse blue and hang yourself upside down in the entrance hall like a chandelier, you do it without surprise or hesitation. Otherwise you might meet with a fair, amount of unpleasantness. Have you got that?” “I’ve got it. Let’s go, Haxo. Whatever happens, that bath’s given me an appetite.” II

Apart from the curt, ceremonious greetings with which she welcomed him as “Lord of Fourhorn,” Queen Calanthe didn’t exchange a single word with the witcher. The banquet was about to begin and the guests, loudly announed by the herald, were gathering.

The table was huge, rectangular, and could seat more than forty men. Calanthe sat at the head of the table on a throne with a high backrest. Geralt sat on her right and, on her left, a gray-haired bard called Drogodar, with a lute. Two more chairs at the head of the table, on the queen’s left, remained empty.

To Geralt’s right, along the table, sat Haxo and a voivode whose name he’d forgotten. Beyond them were guests from the Duchy of Attre—the sullen and silent knight Rainfarn and his charge, the chubby twelve-year-old Prince Windhalm, one of the pretenders to the princess’s hand. Further down were the colorful and motley knights from Cintra, and local vassals.

“Baron Eylembert of Tigg!” announced the herald.

“Coodcoodak!” murmured Calanthe, nudging Drogodar. “This will be fun.”

A thin and whiskered, richly attired knight bowed low, but his lively, happy eyes and cheerful smirk belied his subservience.

“Greetings, Coodcoodak,” said the queen ceremoniously. Obviously the baron was better known by his nickname than by his family name. “We are happy to see you.” “And I am happy to be invited,” declared Coodcoodak, and sighed. “Oh well, I’ll cast an eye on the princess, if you permit, my queen. It’s hard to live alone, ma’am.” “Aye, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe smiled faintly, wrapping a lock of hair around her finger. “But you’re already married, as we well know.” “Aaahh.” The baron was miffed. “You know yourself, ma’am, how weak and delicate my wife is, and smallpox is rife in the neighborhood. I bet my belt and sword against a pair of old slippers that in a year I’ll already be out of mourning.” “Poor man, Coodcoodak. But lucky, too.” Calanthe’s smile grew wider. “Lucky your wife isn’t stronger. I hear that last harvest, when she caught you in the haystack with a strumpet, she chased you for almost a mile with a pitchfork but couldn’t catch you. You have to feed her better, cuddle her more and take care that her back doesn’t get cold during the night. Then, in a year, you’ll see how much better she is.” Coodcoodak pretended to grow doleful. “I take your point. But can I stay for the feast?” “We’d be delighted, Baron.”

“The legation from Skellige!” shouted the herald, becoming increasingly hoarse.

The islanders—four of them, in shiny leather doublets trimmed with seal fur and belted with checkered woolen sashes—strode in with a sprightly, hollow step. They were led by a sinewy warrior with a dark face and aquiline nose and, at his side, a broad-shouldered youth with a mop of red hair. They all bowed before the queen.

“It is a great honor,” said Calanthe, a little flushed, “to welcome such an excellent knight as Eist Tuirseach of Skellige to my castle again. If it weren’t for your well-known disdain for marriage, I’d be delighted to think you’re here to court my Pavetta. Has loneliness got the better of you after all, sir?” “Often enough, beautiful Calanthe,” replied the dark-faced islander, raising his glistening eyes to the queen. “But my life is too dangerous for me to contemplate a lasting union. If it weren’t for that…Pavetta is still a young girl, an unopened bud, but I can see…” “See what?”

“The apple does not fall far from the tree.” Eist Tuirseach smiled, flashing his white teeth. “Suffice it to look at you, my queen, to know how beautiful the princess will be when she reaches the age at which a woman can please a warrior. In the meantime, it is young men who ought to court her. Such as our King Bran’s nephew here, Crach an Craite, who traveled here for exactly that purpose.” Crach, bowing his red head, knelt on one knee before the queen.

“Who else have you brought, Eist?”

A thickset, robust man with a bushy beard, and a strapping fellow with bagpipes on his back, knelt by Crach an Craite.

“This is the gallant druid Mousesack, who, like me, is a good friend and advisor to King Bran. And this is Draig Bon-Dhu, our famous skald. And thirty seamen from Skellige are waiting in the courtyard, burning with hope to catch a glimpse of the beautiful Calanthe of Cintra.” “Sit down, noble guests. Tuirseach, sir, sit here.”

Eist took the vacant seat at the narrower end of the table, only separated from the queen by Drogodar and an empty chair. The remaining islanders sat together on the left, between Marshal Vissegerd and the three sons of Lord Strept, Tinglant, Fodcat and Wieldhill.

“That’s more or less everyone.” The queen leaned over to the marshal. “Let’s begin, Vissegerd.” The marshal clapped his hands. The servants, carrying platters and jugs, moved toward the table in a long line, greeted by a joyful murmur from the guests.

Calanthe barely ate, reluctantly picking at the morsels served her with a silver fork. Drogodar, having bolted his food, kept strumming his lute. The rest of the guests, on the other hand, laid waste to the roast piglets, birds, fish and mollusks on offer—with the red-haired Crach an Craite in the lead. Rainfarn of Attre reprimanded the young Prince Windhalm severely, even slapping his hand when he reached for a jug of cider. Coodcoodak stopped picking bones for a moment and entertained his neighbors by imitating the whistle of a mud turtle. The atmosphere grew merrier by the minute. The first toasts were being raised, and already becoming less and less coherent.

Calanthe adjusted the narrow golden circlet on her curled ash-gray hair and turned to Geralt, who was busy cracking open a huge red lobster.

“It’s loud enough that we can exchange a few words discreetly. Let us start with courtesies: I’m pleased to meet you.” “The pleasure’s mutual, your Majesty.”

“After the courtesies come hard facts. I’ve got a job for you.”

“So I gathered. I’m rarely invited to feasts for the pleasure of my company.”

“You’re probably not very interesting company, then. What else have you gathered?” “I’ll tell you when you’ve outlined my task, your Majesty.”

“Geralt,” said Calanthe, her fingers tapping an emerald necklace, the smallest stone of which was the size of a bumblebee, “what sort of task do you expect, as a witcher? What? Digging a well? Repairing a hole in the roof? Weaving a tapestry of all the positions King Vridank and the beautiful Cerro tried on their wedding night? Surely you know what your profession’s about?” “Yes, I do. I’ll tell you what I’ve gathered, your Majesty.”

“I’m curious.”

“I gathered that. And that, like many others, you’ve mistaken my trade for an altogether different profession.” “Oh?” Calanthe, casually leaning toward the lute-strumming Drogodar, gave the impression of being pensive and absent. “Who, Geralt, makes up this ignorant horde with whom you equate me? And for what profession do those fools mistake your trade?” “Your Majesty,” said Geralt calmly, “while I was riding to Cintra, I met villagers, merchants, peddlers, dwarves, tinkers and woodcutters. They told me about a black annis who has its hideout somewhere in these woods, a little house on a chicken-claw tripod. They mentioned a chimera nestling in the mountains. Aeschnes and centipedeanomorphs. Apparently a manticore could also be found if you look hard enough. So many tasks a witcher could perform without having to dress up in someone else’s feathers and coat of arms.” “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Your Majesty, I don’t doubt that a marriage alliance with Skellige is necessary for Cintra. It’s possible, too, that the schemers who want to prevent it deserve a lesson—using means which don’t involve you. It’s convenient if this lesson were to be given by an unknown lord from Fourhorn, who would then disappear from the scene. And now I’ll answer your question. You mistake my trade for that of a hired killer. Those others, of whom there are so many, are rulers. It’s not the first time I’ve been called to a court where the problems demand the quick solutions of a sword. But I’ve never killed people for money, regardless of whether it’s for a good or bad cause. And I never will.” The atmosphere at the table was growing more and more lively as the beer diminished. The red-haired Crach an Craite found appreciative listeners to his tale of the battle at Thwyth. Having sketched a map on the table with the help of meat bones dipped in sauce, he marked out the strategic plan, shouting loudly. Coodcoodak, proving how apt his nickname was, suddenly cackled like a very real sitting hen, creating general mirth among the guests, and consternation among the servants who were convinced that a bird, mocking their vigilance, had somehow managed to make its way from the courtyard into the hall.

“Thus fate has punished me with too shrewd a witcher.” Calanthe smiled, but her eyes were narrowed and angry. “A witcher who, without a shadow of respect or, at the very least, of common courtesy, exposes my intrigues and infamous plans. But hasn’t fascination with my beauty and charming personality clouded your judgment? Don’t ever do that again, Geralt. Don’t speak to those in power like that. Few of them would forget your words, and you know kings—they have all sorts of things at their disposal: daggers, poisons, dungeons, red-hot pokers. There are hundreds, thousands, of ways kings can avenge their wounded pride. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it is, Geralt, to wound some rulers’ pride. Rarely will any of them take words such as ‘No,’ ‘I won’t,’ and ‘Never’ calmly. But that’s nothing. Interrupt one of them or make inappropriate comments, and you’ll condemn yourself to the wheel.” The queen clasped her narrow white hands together and lightly rested her chin on them. Geralt didn’t interrupt, nor did he comment.

“Kings,” continued Calanthe, “divide people into two categories—those they order around, and those they buy—because they adhere to the old and banal truth that everyone can be bought. Everyone. It’s only a question of price. Don’t you agree? Ah, I don’t need to ask. You’re a witcher, after all; you do your job and take the money. As far as you’re concerned, the idea of being bought has lost its scornful undertone. The question of your price, too, is clear, related as it is to the difficulty of the task and how well you execute it. And your fame, Geralt. Old men at fairs and markets sing of the exploits of the white-haired witcher from Rivia. If even half of it is true, then I wager your services are not cheap. So it would be a waste of money to engage you in such simple, trite matters as palace intrigue or murder. Those can be dealt with by other, cheaper hands.” “BRAAAK! Ghaaa-braaak!” roared Coodcoodak suddenly, to loud applause. Geralt didn’t know which animal he was imitating, but he didn’t want to meet anything like it. He turned his head and caught the queen’s venomously green glance. Drogodar, his lowered head and face concealed by Ms curtain of gray hair, quietly strummed his lute.

“Ah, Geralt,” said Calanthe, with a gesture forbidding a servant from refilling her goblet. “I speak and you remain silent. We’re at a feast. We all want to enjoy ourselves. Amuse me. I’m starting to miss your pertinent remarks and perceptive comments. I’d also be pleased to hear a compliment or two, homage or assurance of your obedience. In whichever order you choose.” “Oh well, your Majesty,” said the witcher, “I’m not a very interesting dinner companion. I’m amazed to be singled out for the honor of occupying this place. Indeed, someone far more appropriate should have been seated here. Anyone you wished. It would have sufficed for you to give them the order, or to buy them. It’s only a question of price.” “Go on, go on.” Calanthe tilted her head back and closed her eyes, the semblance of a pleasant smile on her lips.

“So I’m honored and proud to be sitting by Queen Calanthe of Cintra, whose beauty is surpassed only by her wisdom. I also regard it as a great honor that the queen has heard of me and that, on the basis of what she has heard, does not wish to use me for trivial matters. Last winter Prince Hrobarik, not being so gracious, tried to hire me to find a beauty who, sick of his vulgar advances, had fled the ball, losing a slipper. It was difficult to convince him that he needed a huntsman, and not a witcher.” The queen was listening with an enigmatic smile.

“Other rulers, too, unequal to you in wisdom, didn’t refrain from proposing trivial tasks. It was usually a question of the murder of a stepson, stepfather, stepmother, uncle, aunt—it’s hard to mention them all. They were all of the opinion that it was simply a question of price.” The queen’s smile could have meant anything.

“And so I repeat”—Geralt bowed his head a little—“that I can’t contain my pride to be sitting next to you, ma’am. And pride means a very great deal to us witchers. You wouldn’t believe how much. A lord once offended a witcher’s pride by proposing a job that wasn’t in keeping with either honor or the witcher’s code. What’s more, he didn’t accept a polite refusal and wished to prevent the witcher from leaving his castle. Afterward, everyone agreed this wasn’t one of his best ideas.” “Geralt,” said Calanthe, after a moment’s silence, “you were wrong. You’re a very interesting dinner companion.” Coodcoodak, shaking beer froth from his whiskers and the front of his jacket, craned his neck and gave the penetrating howl of a she-wolf in heat. The dogs in the courtyard, and the entire neighborhood, echoed the howl.

One of the brothers from Strept dipped his finger in his beer and touched up the thick line around the formation drawn by Crach an Craite.

“Error and incompetence!” he shouted. “They shouldn’t have done that! Here, toward the wing, that’s where they should have directed the cavalry, struck the flanks!” “Ha!” roared Crach an Craite, whacking the table with a bone and splattering his neighbors’ faces and tunics with sauce. “And so weaken the center? A key position? Ludicrous!” “Only someone who’s blind or sick in the head would miss the opportunity to maneuver in a situation like that!” “That’s it! Quite right!” shouted Windhalm of Attre.

“Who’s asking you, you little snot?”

“Snot yourself!”

“Shut your gob or I’ll wallop you—”

“Sit on your arse and keep quiet, Crach,” called Eist Tuirseach, interrupting his conversation with Vissegerd. “Enough of these arguments. Drogodar, sir! Don’t waste your talent! Indeed, your beautiful though quiet tunes should be listened to with greater concentration and gravity. Draig Bon-Dhu, stop scoffing and guzzling! You’re not going to impress anyone here like that. Pump up your bagpipes and delight our ears with decent martial music. With your permission, noble Calanthe!” “Oh mother of mine,” whispered the queen to Geralt, raising her eyes to the vault for a moment in silent resignation. But she nodded her permission, smiling openly and kindly.

“Draig Bon-Dhu,” said Eist, “play us the song of the battle of Hochebuz. It won’t leave us in any doubt as to the tactical maneuvers of commanders—or as to who acquired immortal fame there! To the health of the heroic Calanthe of Cintra!” “The health! And glory!” the guests roared, emptying their goblets and clay cups.

Draig Bon-Dhu’s bagpipes gave out an ominous drone and burst into a terrible, drawn-out, modulated wail. The guests took up the song, beating out a rhythm on the table with whatever came to hand. Coodcoodak was staring avidly at the goat-leather sack, captivated by the idea of adopting its dreadful tones in his own repertoire.

“Hochebuz,” said Calante, looking at Geralt, “my first battle. Although I fear rousing the indignation and contempt of such a proud witcher, I confess that we were fighting for money. Our enemy was burning villages which paid us levies and we, greedy for our tributes, challenged them on the field. A trivial reason, a trivial battle, a trivial three thousand corpses pecked to pieces by the crows. And look—instead of being ashamed I’m proud as a peacock that songs are sung about me. Even when sung to such awful music.” Again she summoned her parody of a smile full of happiness and kindness, and answered the toast raised to her by lifting her own, empty, goblet. Geralt remained silent.

“Let’s go on.” Calanthe accepted a pheasant leg offered to her by Drogodar and picked at it gracefully. “As I said, you’ve aroused my interest. I’ve been told that witchers are an interesting caste, but I didn’t really believe it. Now I do. When hit, you give a note which shows you’re fashioned of pure steel, unlike these men molded from bird shit. Which doesn’t, in any way, change the fact that you’re here to execute a task. And you’ll do it without being so clever.” Geralt didn’t smile disrespectfully or nastily, although he very much wanted to. He held his silence.

“I thought,” murmured the queen, appearing to give her full attention to the pheasant’s thigh, “that you’d say something. Or smile. No? All the better. Can I consider our negotiations concluded?” “Unclear tasks,” said the witcher dryly, “can’t be clearly executed.”

“What’s unclear? You did, after all, guess correctly. I have plans regarding a marriage alliance with Skellige. These plans are threatened, and I need you to eliminate the threat. But here your shrewdness ends. The supposition that I mistake your trade for that of a hired thug has piqued me greatly. Accept, Geralt, that I belong to that select group of rulers who know exactly what witchers do, and how they ought to be employed. On the other hand, if someone kills as efficiently as you do, even though not for money, he shouldn’t be surprised if people credit him with being a professional in that field. Your fame runs ahead of you, Geralt; it’s louder than Draig Bon-Dhu’s accursed bagpipes, and there are equally few pleasant notes in it.” The bagpipe player, although he couldn’t hear the queen’s words, finished his concert. The guests rewarded him with an uproarious ovation and dedicated themselves with renewed zeal to the remains of the banquet, recalling battles and making rude jokes about womenfolk. Coodcoodak was making a series of loud noises, but there was no way to tell if these were yet another animal imitation, or an attempt to relieve his overloaded stomach.

Eist Tuirseach leaned far across the table. “Your Majesty,” he said, “there are good reasons, I am sure, for your dedication to the lord from Fourhorn, but it’s high time we saw Princess Pavetta. What are we waiting for? Surely not for Crach an Craite to get drunk? And even that moment is almost here.” “You’re right as usual, Eist.” Calanthe smiled warmly. Geralt was amazed by her arsenal of smiles. “Indeed, I do have important matters to discuss with the Honorable Ravix. I’ll dedicate some time to you too, but you know my principle: duty then pleasure. Haxo!” She raised her hand and beckoned the castellan. Haxo rose without a word, bowed, and quickly ran upstairs, disappearing into the dark gallery. The queen turned to the witcher.

“You heard? We’ve been debating for too long. If Pavetta has stopped preening in front of the looking glass, she’ll be here presently. So prick up your ears because I won’t repeat this. I want to achieve the ends which, to a certain degree, you have guessed. There can be no other solution. As for you, you have a choice. You can be forced to act by my command—I don’t wish to dwell on the consequences of disobedience, although obedience will be generously rewarded—or you can render me a paid service. Note that I didn’t say “I can buy you,’ because I’ve decided not to offend your witcher’s pride. There’s a huge difference, isn’t there?” “The magnitude of this difference has somehow escaped my notice.”

‘Then pay greater attention. The difference, my dear witcher, is that one who is bought is paid according to the buyer’s whim, whereas one who renders a service sets his own price. Is that clear?” “To a certain extent. Let’s say, then, that I choose to serve. Surely I should know what that entails?” “No. Only a command has to be specific and explicit. A paid service is different. I’m interested in the results, nothing more. How you achieve it is your business.” Geralt, raising his head, met Mousesack’s penetrating black gaze. The druid of Skellige, without taking his eyes from the witcher, was crumbling bread in his hands and dropping it as if lost in thought. Geralt looked down. There on the oak table, crumbs, grains of buckwheat and fragments of lobster shell were moving like ants. They were forming runes which joined up—for a moment—into a word. A question.

Mousesack waited without taking his eyes off him. Geralt, almost imperceptibly, nodded. The druid lowered his eyelids and, with a stony face, swiped the crumbs off the table.

“Honorable gentlemen!” called the herald. “Pavetta of Cintra!”

The guests grew silent, turning to the stairs.

Preceded by the castellan and a fair-haired page in a scarlet doublet, the princess descended slowly, her head lowered. The color of her hair was identical to her mother’s—ash-gray—but she wore it braided into two thick plaits which reached below her waist. Pavetta was adorned only with a tiara ornamented with a delicately worked jewel and a belt of tiny golden links which girded her long silvery-blue dress at the hips.

Escorted by the page, herald, castellan and Vissegerd, the princess occupied the empty chair between Drogodar and Eist Tuirseach. The knightly islander immediately filled her goblet and entertained her with conversation. Geralt didn’t notice her answer with more than a word. Her eyes were permanently lowered, hidden behind her long lashes even during the noisy toasts raised to her around the table. There was no doubt her beauty had impressed the guests—Crach an Craite stopped shouting and stared at Pavetta in silence, even forgetting his tankard of beer. Windhalm of Attre was also devouring the princess with his eyes, flushing shades of red as though only a few grains in the hourglass separated them from their wedding night. Coodcoodak and the brothers from Strept were studying the girl’s petite face, too, with suspicious concentration.

“Aha,” said Calanthe quietly, clearly pleased. “And what do you say, Geralt? The girl has taken after her mother. It’s even a shame to waste her on that red-haired lout, Crach. The only hope is that the pup might grow into someone with Eist Tuirseach’s class. It’s the same blood, after all. Are you listening, Geralt? Cintra has to form an alliance with Skellige because the interest of the state demands it. My daughter has to marry the right person. Those are the results you must ensure me.” “I have to ensure that? Isn’t your will alone sufficient for it to happen?”

“Events might take such a turn that it won’t be sufficient.”

“What can be stronger than your will?”

“Destiny.”

“Aha. So I, a poor witcher, am to face down a destiny which is stronger than the royal will. A witcher fighting destiny! What irony!” “Yes, Geralt? What irony?”

“Never mind. Your Majesty, it seems the service you demand borders on the impossible.” “If it bordered on the possible,” Calanthe drawled, “I would manage it myself. I wouldn’t need the famous Geralt of Rivia. Stop being so clever. Everything can be dealt with—it’s only a question of price. Bloody hell, there must be a figure on your witchers’ pricelist for work that borders on the impossible. I can guess one, and it isn’t low. You ensure me my outcome and I will give you what you ask.” “What did you say?”

“I’ll give you whatever you ask for. And I don’t like being told to repeat myself. I wonder, witcher, do you always try to dissuade your employers as strongly as you are me? Time is slipping away. Answer, yes or no?” “Yes.”

“That’s better. That’s better, Geralt. Your answers are much closer to the ideal. They’re becoming more like those I expect when I ask a question. So. Discreetly stretch your left hand out and feel behind my throne.” Geralt slipped his hand under the yellow-blue drapery. Almost immediately he felt a sword secured to the leather-upholstered backrest. A sword well-known to him.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, “not to repeat what I said earlier about killing people, you do realize that a sword alone will not defeat destiny?” “I do.” Calanthe turned her head away. “A witcher is also necessary. As you see, I took care of that.” “Your Maje—”

“Not another word, Geralt. We’ve been conspiring for too long. They’re looking at us, and Eist is getting angry. Talk to the castellan. Have something to eat. Drink, but not too much. I want you to have a steady hand.” He obeyed. The queen joined a conversation between Eist, Vissegerd and Mousesack, with Pavetta’s silent and dreamy participation. Drogodar had put away his lute and was making up for his lost eating time. Haxo wasn’t talkative. The voivode with the hard-to-remember name, who must have heard something about the affairs and problems of Fourhorn, politely asked whether the mares were foaling well. Geralt answered yes, much better than the stallions. He wasn’t sure if the joke had been well taken, but the voivode didn’t ask any more questions.

Mousesack’s eyes constantly sought the witcher’s, but the crumbs on the table didn’t move again.

Crach an Craite was becoming more and more friendly with the two brothers from Strept. The third, the youngest brother, was paralytic, having tried to match the drinking speed imposed by Draig Bon-Dhu. The skald had emerged from it unscathed.

The younger and less important lords gathered at the end of the table, tipsy, started singing a well-known song—out of tune—about a little goat with horns and a vengeful old woman with no sense of humor.

A curly-haired servant and a captain of the guards wearing the gold and blue of Cintra ran up to Vissegerd. The marshal, frowning, listened to their report, rose, and leaned down from behind the throne to murmur something to the queen. Calanthe glanced at Geralt and answered with a single word. Vissegerd leaned over even further and whispered something more; the queen looked at him sharply and, without a word, slapped her armrest with an open palm. The marshal bowed and passed the command to the captain of the guards. Geralt didn’t hear it but he did notice that Mousesack wriggled uneasily and glanced at Pavetta—the princess was sitting motionless, her head lowered.

Heavy footsteps, each accompanied by the clang of metal striking the floor, could be heard over the hum at the table. Everyone raised their heads and turned.

The approaching figure was clad in armor of iron sheets and leather treated with wax. His convex, angular, black and blue breastplate overlapped a segmented apron and short thigh pads. The armor-plated brassards bristled with sharp, steel spikes and the visor, with its densely grated screen extending out in the shape of a dog’s muzzle, was covered with spikes like a conker casing.

Clattering and grinding, the strange guest approached the table and stood motionless in front of the throne.

“Noble queen, honorable gentlemen,” said the newcomer, bowing stiffly. “Please forgive me for disrupting your ceremonious feast. I am Urcheon of Erlenwald.” “Greetings, Urcheon of Erlenwald,” said Calanthe slowly. “Please take your place at the table. In Cintra we welcome every guest.” “Thank you, your Majesty.” Urcheon of Erlenwald bowed once again and touched his chest with a fist clad in an iron gauntlet. “But I haven’t come to Cintra as a guest but on a matter of great importance and urgency. If your Majesty permits, I will present my case immediately, without wasting your time.” “Urcheon of Erlenwald,” said the queen sharply, “a praiseworthy concern about our time does not justify lack of respect. And such is your speaking to us from behind an iron trellis. Remove your helmet, and we’ll endure the time wasted while you do.” “My face, your Majesty, must remain hidden for the time being. “With your permission.” An angry ripple, punctuated here and there with the odd curse, ran through the gathered crowd. Mousesack, lowering his head, moved his lips silently. The witcher felt the spell electrify the air for a second, felt it stir his medallion. Calanthe was looking at Urcheon, narrowing her eyes and drumming her fingers on her armrest.

“Granted,” she said finally. “I choose to believe your motive is sufficiently important. So—what brings you here, Urcheon-without-a-face?” “Thank you,” said the newcomer. “But I’m unable to suffer the accusation of lacking respect, so I explain that it is a matter of a knight’s vows. I am not allowed to reveal my face before midnight strikes.” Calanthe, raising her hand perfunctorily, accepted his explanation. Urcheon advanced, his spiked armor clanging.

“Fifteen years ago,” he announced loudly, “your husband King Roegner lost his way while hunting in Erlenwald. Wandering around the pathless tracts, he fell from his horse into a ravine and sprained his leg. He lay at the bottom of the gully and called for help but the only answer he got was the hiss of vipers and the howling of approaching werewolves. He would have died without the help he received.” “I know what happened,” the queen affirmed. “If you know it, too, then I guess you are the one who helped him.” “Yes. It is only because of me he returned to you in one piece, and well.”

“I am grateful to you, then, Urcheon of Erlenwald. That gratitude is none the lesser for the fact that Roegner, gentleman of my heart and bed, has left this world. Tell me, if the implication that your aid was not disinterested does not offend another of your knightly vows, how I can express my gratitude.” “You well know my aid was not disinterested. You know, too, that I have come to collect the promised reward for saving the king’s life.” “Oh yes?” Calanthe smiled but green sparks lit up her eyes. “So you found a man at the bottom of a ravine, defenseless, wounded, at the mercy of vipers and monsters. And only when he promised you a reward did you help? And if he didn’t want to or couldn’t promise you something, you’d have left him there, and, to this day, I wouldn’t know where his bones lay? How noble. No doubt your actions were guided by a particularly chivalrous vow at the time.” The murmur around the hall grew louder.

“And today you come for your reward, Urcheon?” continued the queen, smiling even more ominously. “After fifteen years? No doubt you are counting the interest accrued over this period? This isn’t the dwarves’ bank, Urcheon. You say Roegner promised you a reward? Ah, well, it will be difficult to get him to pay you. It would be simpler to send you to him, into the other world, to reach an agreement over who owes what. I loved my husband too dearly, Urcheon, to forget that I could have lost him then, fifteen years ago, if he hadn’t chosen to bargain with you. The thought of it arouses rather-ill feeling toward you. Masked newcomer, do you know that here in Cintra, in my castle and in my power, you are just as helpless and close to death as Roegner was then, at the bottom of the ravine? What will you propose, what price, what reward will you offer, if I promise you will leave here alive?” The medallion on Geralt’s neck twitched. The witcher caught Mousesack’s clearly uneasy gaze. He shook his head a little and raised his eyebrows questioningly. The druid also shook his head and, with a barely perceptible move of his curly beard, indicated Urcheon. Geralt wasn’t sure.

“Your words, your Majesty,” called Urcheon, “are calculated to frighten me, to kindle the anger of the honorable gentlemen gathered here, and the contempt of your pretty daughter, Pavetta. But above all, your words are untrue. And you know it!” “You accuse me of lying like a dog.” An ugly grimace crept across Calanthe’s lips.

“You know very well, your Majesty,” the newcomer continued adamantly, “what happened then in Erlenwald. You know Roegner, once saved, vowed of his own will to give me whatever I asked for. I call upon every one to witness my words! When the king, rescued from his misadventure, reached his retinue, he asked me what I demanded and I answered. I asked him to promise me whatever he had left at home without knowing or expecting it. The king swore it would be so, and on his return to the castle he found you, Calanthe, in labor. Yes, your Majesty, I waited for fifteen years and the interest on my reward has grown. Today I look at the beautiful Pavetta and see that the wait has been worth it! Gentlemen and knights! Some of you have come to Cintra to ask for the princess’s hand. You have come in vain. From the day of her birth, by the power of the royal oath, the beautiful Pavetta has belonged to me!” An uproar burst forth among the guests. Some shouted, someone swore, someone else thumped his fist on the table and knocked the dishes over. Wieldhill of Strept pulled a knife out of the roast lamb and waved it about. Crach an Craite, bent over, was clearly trying to break a plank from the table trestle.

“That’s unheard of!” yelled Vissegerd. “What proof do you have? Proof?”

“The queen’s face,” exclaimed Urcheon, extending his hand, “is the best proof!”

Pavetta sat motionless, not raising her head. The air was growing thick with something very strange. The witcher’s medallion was tearing at its chain under the tunic. He saw the queen summon a page and whisper a short command. Geralt couldn’t hear it, but he was puzzled by the surprise on the boy’s face and the fact that the command had to be repeated. The page ran toward the exit.

The uproar at the table continued as Eist Tuirseach turned to the queen.

“Calanthe,” he said calmly, “is what he says true?”

“And if it is,” the queen muttered through her teeth, biting her lips and picking at the green sash on her shoulder, “so what?” “If what he says is true”—Eist frowned—“then the promise will have to be kept.”

“Is that so?”

“Or am I to understand,” the islander asked grimly, “that you treat all promises this lightly, including those which have etched themselves so deeply in my memory?” Geralt, who had never expected to see Calanthe blush deeply, with tears in her eyes and trembling lips, was surprised.

“Eist,” whispered the queen, “this is different—”

“Is it, really?”

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” Crach an Craite yelled unexpectedly, jumping up. “The last fool who said I’d acted in vain was pinched apart by crabs at the bottom of Allenker bay! I didn’t sail here from Skellig to return empty-handed! A suitor has turned up, some son of a trollop! Someone bring me a sword and give that idiot some iron! We’ll soon see who—” “Maybe you could just shut up, Crach?” Eist snapped scathingly, resting both fists on the table. “Draig Bon-Dhu! I render you responsible for his future behavior!” “And are you going to silence me, too, Tuirseach?” shouted Rainfarn of Attre, standing up. “Who is going to stop me from washing the insult thrown at my prince away with blood? And his son, Windhalm, the only man worthy of Pavetta’s hand and bed! Bring the swords! I’ll show that Urcheon, or whatever he’s called, how we of Attre take revenge for such abuse! I wonder whether anybody or anything can hold me back?” “Yes. Regard for good manners,” said Eist Tuirseach calmly. “It is not proper to start a fight here or challenge anyone without permission from the lady of the house. What is this? Is the throne room of Cintra an inn where you can punch each other’s heads and stab each other with knives as the fancy takes you?” Everybody started to shout again, to curse and swear and wave their arms about. But the uproar suddenly stopped, as if cut by a knife, at the short, furious roar of an enraged bison.

“Yes,” said Coodcoodak, clearing his throat and rising from his chair. “Eist has it wrong. This doesn’t even look like an inn anymore. It’s more like a zoo, so a bison should be at home here. Honorable Calanthe, allow me to offer my opinion.” “A great many people, I see,” said Calanthe in a drawling voice, “have an opinion on this problem and are offering it even without my permission. Strange that you aren’t interested in mine? And in my opinion, this bloody castle will sooner collapse on my head than I give my Pavetta to this crank. I haven’t the least intention—” “Roegner’s oath—” Urcheon began, but the queen silenced him, banging her golden goblet on the table.

“Roegner’s oath means about as much to me as last year’s snows! And as for you, Urcheon, I haven’t decided whether to allow Crach or Rainfarn to meet you outside, or to simply hang you. You’re greatly influencing my decision with your interruption!” Geralt, still disturbed by the way his medallion was quivering, looked around the hall. Suddenly he saw Pavetta’s eyes, emerald green like her mother’s. The princess was no longer hiding them beneath her long lashes—she swept them from Mousesack to the witcher, ignoring the others. Mousesack, bent over, was wriggling and muttering something.

Coodcoodak, still standing, cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Speak.” The queen nodded. “But be brief.”

“As you command, your Majesty. Noble Calanthe and you, knights! Indeed, Urcheon of Erlenwald made a strange request of King Roegner, a strange reward to demand when the king offered him his wish. But let us not pretend we’ve never heard of such requests, of the Law of Surprise, as old as humanity itself. Of the price a man who saves another can demand, of the granting of a seemingly impossible wish. ‘You will give me the first thing that comes to greet you.’ It might be a dog, you’ll say, a halberdier at the gate, even a mother-in-law impatient to holler at her son-in-law when he returns home. Or: ‘You’ll give me what you find at home yet don’t expect.’ After a long journey, honorable gentlemen, and an unexpected return, this could be a lover in the wife’s bed. But sometimes it’s a child. A child marked out by destiny.” “Briefly, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe frowned.

“As you command. Sirs! Have you not heard of children marked out by destiny? Was not the legendary hero, Zatret Voruta, given to the dwarves as a child because he was the first person his father met on his return? And Mad Dei, who demanded a traveler give him what he left at home without knowing it? That surprise was the famous Supree, who later liberated Mad Dei” from the curse which weighed him down. Remember Zivelena, who became the Queen of Metinna with the help of the gnome Rumplestelt, and in return promised him her firstborn? Zivelena didn’t keep her promise when Rumplestelt came for his reward and, by using spells, she forced him to run away. Not long after that, both she and the child died of the plague. You do not dice with Destiny with impunity!” “Don’t threaten me, Coodcoodak.” Calanthe grimaced. “Midnight is close, the time for ghosts. Can you remember any more legends from your undoubtedly difficult childhood? If not, then sit down.” “I ask your Grace”—the baron turned up his long whiskers—“to allow me to remain standing. I’d like to remind everybody of another legend. It’s an old, forgotten legend—we’ve all probably heard it in our difficult childhoods. In this legend, the kings kept their promises. And we, poor vassals, are only bound to kings by the royal word: treaties, alliances, our privileges and fiefs all rely on it. And now? Are we to doubt all this? Doubt the inviolability of the king’s word? Wait until it is worth as much as yesteryear’s snow? If this is how things are to be, then a difficult old age awaits us after our difficult childhoods!” “Whose side are you on, Coodcoodak?” hollered Rainfarn of Attre.

“Silence! Let him speak!”

“This cackler, full of hot air, insults her Majesty!”

“The Baron of Tigg is right!”

“Silence,” Calanthe said suddenly, getting up. “Let him finish.”

“I thank you graciously.” Coodcoodak bowed. “But I have just finished.”

Silence fell, strange after the commotion his words had caused. Calanthe was still standing. Geralt didn’t think anyone else had noticed her hand shake as she wiped her brow.

“My lords,” she said finally, “you deserve an explanation. Yes, this…Urcheon…speaks the truth. Roegner did swear to give him that which he did not expect. It looks as if our lamented king was an oaf as far as a woman’s affairs are concerned, and couldn’t be trusted to count to nine. He confessed the truth on his deathbed, because he knew what I’d do to him if he’d admitted it earlier. He knew what a mother, whose child is disposed of so recklessly, is capable of.” The knights and magnates remained silent. Urcheon stood motionless, like a spiked, iron statue.

“And Coodcoodak,” continued Calanthe, “well, Coodcoodak has reminded me that I am not a mother but a queen. Very well, then. As queen, I shall convene a council tomorrow. Cintra is not a tyranny. The council will decide whether a dead king’s oath is to decide the fate of the successor to the throne. It will decide whether Pavetta and the throne of Cintra are to be given to a stranger, or to act according to the kingdom’s interest.” Calanthe was silent for a moment, looking askance at Geralt. “And as for the noble knights who have come to Cintra in the hope of the princess’s hand…It only remains for me to express my deep regret at the cruel disrespect and dishonor they have experienced here, at the ridicule poured on them. I am not to blame.” Amid the hum of voices which rumbled through the guests, the witcher managed to pick out Eist Tuirseach’s whisper.

“On all the gods of the sea,” sighed the islander. “This isn’t befitting. This is open incitement to bloodshed. Calanthe, you’re simply setting them against each other—” “Be quiet, Eist,” hissed the queen furiously, “because I’ll get angry.”

Mousesack’s black eyes flashed as—with a glance—the druid indicated Rainfarn of Attre who, with a gloomy, grimacing face, was preparing to stand. Geralt reacted immediately, standing up first and banging the chair noisily.

“Maybe it will prove unnecessary to convene the council,” he said in ringing tones.

Everyone grew silent, watching him with astonishment. Geralt felt Pavetta’s emerald eyes on him, he felt Urcheon’s gaze fall on him from behind the lattice of his black visor, and he felt the Force surging like a flood-wave and solidifying in the air. He saw how, under the influence of this Force, the smoke from the torches and oil lamps was taking on fantastic forms. He knew that Mousesack saw it too. He also knew that nobody else saw it.

“I said,” he repeated calmly, “that convening the council may not prove necessary. You understand what I have in mind, Urcheon of Erlenwald?” The spiked knight took two grating steps forward.

“I do,” he said, his words hollow beneath his helmet. “It would take a fool not to understand. I heard what the merciful and noble lady Calanthe said a moment ago. She has found an excellent way of getting rid of me. I accept your challenge, knight unknown to me!” “I don’t recall challenging you,” said Geralt. “I don’t intend to duel you, Urcheon of Erlenwald.” “Geralt!” called Calanthe, twisting her lips and forgetting to call the witcher Ravix, “don’t overdo it! Don’t put my patience to the test!” “Or mine,” added Rainfarn ominously. Crach an Craite growled, and Eist Tuirseach meaningfully showed him a clenched fist. Crach growled even louder.

“Everyone heard,” spoke Geralt, “Baron Tigg tell us about the famous heroes taken from their parents on the strength of the same oath that Urcheon received from King Roegner. But why should anyone want such an oath? You know the answer, Urcheon of Erlenwald. It creates a powerful, indissoluble tie of destiny between the person demanding the oath and its object, the child-surprise. Such a child, marked by blind fate, can be destined for extraordinary things. It can play an incredibly important role in the life of the person to whom fate has tied it. That is why, Urcheon, you demanded the prize you claim today. You don’t want the throne of Cintra. You want the princess.” “It is exactly as you say, knight unknown to me.” Urcheon laughed out loud. “That is exactly what I claim! Give me the one who is my destiny!” “That,” said Geralt, “will have to be proved.”

“You dare doubt it? After the queen confirmed the truth of my words? After what you’ve just said?” “Yes. Because you didn’t tell us everything. Roegner knew the power of the Law of Surprise and the gravity of the oath he took. And he took it because he knew law and custom have a power which protects such oaths, ensuring they are only fulfilled when the force of destiny confirms them. I declare, Urcheon, that you have no right to the princess as yet. You will win her only when—” “When what?”

“When the princess herself agrees to leave with you. This is what the Law of Surprise states. It is the child’s, not the parent’s, consent which confirms the oath, which proves that the child was born under the shadow of destiny. That’s why you returned after fifteen years, Urcheon, and that’s the condition King Roegner stipulated in his oath.” “Who are you?”

“I am Geralt of Rivia.”

“Who are you, Geralt of Rivia, to claim to be an oracle in matters of laws and customs?” “He knows this law better than anyone else,” Mouse-sack said in a hoarse voice, “because it applied to him once. He was taken from his home because he was what his father hadn’t expected to find on his return. Because he was destined for other things. And by the power of destiny he became what he is.” “And what is he?”

“A witcher.”

In the silence that reigned, the guardhouse bell struck, announcing midnight in a dull tone. Everyone shuddered and raised their heads. Mousesack watched Geralt with surprise. But it was Urcheon who flinched most noticeably and moved uneasily. His hands, clad in their armor gauntlets, fell to his sides lifelessly, and the spiked helmet swayed unsteadily.

The strange, unknown Force suddenly grew thicker, filling the hall like a gray mist.

“It’s true,” said Calanthe. “Geralt, present here, is a witcher. His trade is worthy of respect and esteem. He has sacrificed himself to protect us from monsters and nightmares born in the night, those sent by powers ominous and harmful to man. He kills the horrors and monsters that await us in the forests and ravines. And those which have the audacity to enter our dwellings.” Urcheon was silent. “And so,” continued the queen, raising her ringed hand, “let the law be fulfilled, let the oath which you, Urcheon of Erlenwald, insist should be satisfied, be satisfied. Midnight has struck. Your vow no longer binds you. Lift your visor. Before my daughter expresses her will, before she decides her destiny, let her see your face. We all wish to see your face.” Urcheon of Erlenwald slowly raised his armored hand, pulled at the helmet’s fastenings, grabbed it by the iron horn and threw it against the floor with a crash. Someone shouted, someone swore, someone sucked in their breath with a whistle. On the queen’s face appeared a wicked, very wicked, smile. A cruel smile of triumph.

Above the wide, semi-circular breastplate, two bulbous, black, button eyes looked out. Eyes set to either side of a blunt, elongated muzzle covered in reddish bristles and full of sharp white fangs. Urcheon’s head and neck bristled with a brush of short, gray, twitching prickles.

“This is how I look,” spoke the creature, “which you well knew, Calanthe. Roegner, in telling you of his oath, wouldn’t have omitted describing me. Urcheon of Erlenwald to whom—despite my appearance—Roegner swore his oath. You prepared well for my arrival, queen. Your own vassals have pointed out your haughty and contemptuous refusal to keep Roegner’s word. When your attempt to set the other suitors on me didn’t succeed, you still had a killer witcher in reserve, ready at your right hand. And finally, common, low deceit. You wanted to humiliate me, Calanthe. Know that it is yourself you have humiliated!” “Enough.” Calanthe stood up and rested her clenched fist on her hip. “Let’s put an end to this. Pavetta! You see who, or rather what, is standing in front of you, claiming you for himself. In accordance with the Law of Surprise and eternal custom, the decision is yours. Answer. One word from you is enough. Yes, and you become the property, the conquest, of this monster. No, and you will never have to see him again.” The Force pulsating in the hall was squeezing Geralt’s temples like an iron vice, buzzing in his ears, making the hair on his neck stand on end. The witcher looked at Mousesack’s whitening knuckles, clenched at the edge of the table. At the trickle of sweat running down the queen’s cheek. At the breadcrumbs on the table, moving like insects, forming runes, dispersing and again gathering into one word: CAREFUL!

“Pavetta!” Calanthe repeated. “Answer. Do you choose to leave with this creature?” Pavetta raised her head. “Yes.”

The Force filling the hall echoed her, rumbling hollowly in the arches of the vault. No one, absolutely no one, made the slightest sound.

Calanthe very slowly collapsed into her throne. Her face was completely expressionless.

“Everyone heard,” Urcheon’s calm voice resounded in the silence. “You, too, Calanthe. As did you, witcher, cunning, hired thug. My rights have been established. Truth and destiny have triumphed over lies and deviousness. What do you have left, noble queen, disguised witcher? Cold steel?” No one answered. “I’d like to leave with Pavetta immediately,” continued Urcheon, his bristles stirring as he snapped his jaw shut, “but I won’t deny myself one small pleasure. It is you, Calanthe, who will lead your daughter here to me and place her white hand in mine.” Calanthe slowly turned her head in the witcher’s direction. Her eyes expressed a command. Geralt didn’t move, sensing that the Force condensing in the air was concentrated on him. Only on him. Now he understood. The queen’s eyes narrowed, her lips quivered… “What?! What’s this?” yelled Crach an Craite, jumping up. “Her white hand? In his? The princess with this bristly stinker? With this…pig’s snout?” “And I wanted to fight him like a knight!” Rainfarn chimed in. “This horror, this beast! Loose the dogs on him! The dogs!” “Guards!” cried Calanthe.

Everything happened at once. Crach an Craite seized a knife from the table and knocked his chair over with a crash. Obeying Eist’s command, Draig Bon-Dhu, without a thought, whacked the back of his head with his bagpipes, as hard as he could. Crach dropped onto the table between a sturgeon in gray sauce and the few remaining arched ribs of a roast boar. Rainfarn leapt toward Urcheon, flashing a dagger drawn from his sleeve. Coodcoodak, springing up, kicked a stool under his feet which Rainfarn jumped agilely, but a moment’s delay was enough—Urcheon deceived him with a short feint and forced him to his knees with a mighty blow from his armored fist. Coodcoodak fell to snatch the dagger from Rainfarn but was stopped by Prince Windhalm, who clung to his thigh like a bloodhound.

Guards, armed with guisarmes and lances, ran in from the entrance. Calanthe, upright and threatening, with an authoritative, abrupt gesture indicated Urcheon to them. Pavetta started to shout, Eist Tuirseach to curse. Everyone jumped up, not quite knowing what to do.

“Kill him!” shouted the queen.

Urcheon, huffing angrily and baring his fangs, turned to face the attacking guards. He was unarmed but clad in spiked steel, from which the points of the guisarmes bounced with a clang. But the blows knocked him back, straight onto Rainfarn, who was just getting up and immobilized him by grabbing his legs. Urcheon let out a roar and, with his iron elbow-guards, deflected the blades aimed at his head. Rainfarn jabbed him with his dagger but the blade slid off the breastplate. The guards, crossing their spear-shafts, pinned him to the sculpted chimney. Rainfarn, who was hanging onto his belt, found a chink in the armor and dug the dagger into it. Urcheon curled up.

“Dunyyyyyyy!” Pavetta shrilled as she jumped onto the chair.

The witcher, sword in hand, sprang onto the table and ran toward the fighting men, knocking plates, dishes and goblets all over the place. He knew there wasn’t much time. Pavetta’s cries were sounding more and more unnatural. Rainfarn was raising his dagger to stab again.

Geralt cut, springing from the table into a crouch. Rainfarn wailed and staggered to the wall. The witcher spun and, with the center of his blade, slashed a guard who was trying to dig the sharp tongue of his lance between Urcheon’s apron and breastplate. The guard tumbled to the ground, losing his helmet. More guards came running in from the entrance.

“This is not befitting!” roared Eist Tuirseach, grabbing a chair. He shattered the unwieldly piece of furniture against the floor with great force and, with what remained his hand, threw himself at those advancing on Urcheon.

Urcheon, caught by two guisarme hooks at the same time, collapsed with a clang, cried out and huffed as he was dragged along the floor. A third guard raised his lance to stab down and Geralt cut him in the temple with the point of his sword. Those dragging Urcheon stepped back quickly, throwing down their guisarmes, while those approaching from the entrance backed away from the remnants of chair brandished by Eist like the magic sword Balmur in the hand of the legendary Zatreta Voruta.

Pavetta’s cries reached a peak and suddenly broke off. Geralt, sensing what was about to happen, fell to the floor watching for a greenish flash. He felt an excruciating pain in his ears, heard a terrible crash and a horrifying wail ripped from numerous throats. And then the princess’s even, monotonous and vibrating cry.

The table, scattering dishes and food all around, was rising and spinning; heavy chairs were flying around the hall and shattering against the walls; tapestries and hangings were flapping, raising clouds of dust. Cries and the dry crack of guisarme shafts snapping like sticks came from the entrance.

The throne, with Calanthe sitting on it, sprang up and flew across the hall like an arrow, smashing into the wall with a crash and falling apart. The queen slid to the floor like a ragged puppet. Eist Tuirseach, barely on his feet, threw himself toward her, took her in his arms and sheltered her from the hail pelting against the walls and floor with his body.

Geralt, grasping the medallion in his hand, slithered as quickly as he could toward Mousesack, miraculously still on his knees, who was lifting a short hawthorn wand with a rat’s skull affixed to the tip. On the wall behind the druid, a tapestry depicting the siege and fire of Fortress Ortagar was burning with very real flames.

Pavetta wailed. Turning round and round, she lashed everything and everybody with her cries as if with a whip. Anyone who tried to stand tumbled to the ground or was flattened against the wall. An enormous silver sauceboat in the shape of a many-oared vessel with an upturned bow came whistling through the air in front of Geralt’s eyes and knocked down the voivode with the hard-to-remember name just as he was trying to dodge it. Plaster rained down silently as the table rotated beneath the ceiling, with Crach an Craite flattened on it and throwing down vile curses.

Geralt crawled to Mousesack and they hid behind the heap formed by Fodcat of Strept, a barrel of beer, Drogodar, a chair and Drogodar’s lute.

“It’s pure, primordial Force!” the druid yelled over the racket and clatter. “She’s got no control over it!” “I know!” Geralt yelled back. A roast pheasant with a few striped feathers still stuck in its rump, fell from nowhere and thumped him in the back.

“She has to be restrained! The walls are starting to crack!”

“I can see!”

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

“One! Two! Now!”

They both hit her simultaneously, Geralt with the Sign of Aard and Mousesack with a terrible, three-staged curse powerful enough to make the floor melt. The chair on which the princess was standing disintegrated into splinters. Pavetta barely noticed—she hung in the air within a transparent green sphere. Without ceasing to shout, she turned her head toward them and her petite face shrunk into a sinister grimace.

“By all the demons—!” roared Mousesack.

“Careful!” shouted the witcher, curling up. “Block her, Mousesack! Block her or it’s the end of us!” The table thudded heavily to the ground, shattering its trestle and everything beneath it. Crach an Craite, who was lying on the table, was thrown into the air. A heavy rain of plates and remnants of food fell; crystal carafes exploded as they hit the ground. The cornice broke away from the wall, rumbling like thunder, making the floors of the castle quake.

“Everything’s letting go!” Mousesack shouted, aiming his wand at the princess. “The whole Force is going to fall on us!” Geralt, with a blow of his sword, deflected a huge double-pronged fork which was flying straight at the druid.

“Block it, Mousesack!”

Emerald eyes sent two flashes of green lightning at them. They coiled into blinding, whirling funnels from the centers of which the Force—like a battering ram which exploded the skull, put out the eyes and paralyzed the breath—descended on them. Together with the Force, glass, majolica, platters, candlesticks, bones, nibbled loaves of bread, planks, slats and smoldering firewood from the hearth poured over them. Crying wildly like a great capercaillie, Castellan Haxo flew over their heads. The enormous head of a boiled carp splattered against Geralt’s chest, on the bear passant sable and damsel of Fourhorn.

Through Mousesack’s wall-shattering curses, through his own shouting and the wailing of the wounded, the din, clatter and racket, through Pavetta’s wailing, the witcher suddenly heard the most terrible sound.

Coodcoodak, on his knees, was strangling Draig Bon-Dhu’s bagpipes with his hands, while, with his head thrown back, he shouted over the monstrous sounds emerging from the bag, wailed and roared, cackled and croaked, bawled and squawked in a cacophony of sounds made by all known, unknown, domestic, wild and mythical animals.

Pavetta fell silent, horrified, and looked at the baron with her mouth agape. The Force eased off abruptly.

“Now!” yelled Mousesack, waving his wand. “Now, witcher!”

They hit her. The greenish sphere surrounding the princess burst under their blow like a soap bubble and the vacuum instantly sucked in the Force raging through the room. Pavetta flopped heavily to the ground and started to weep.

After the pandemonium, a moment’s silence rang in their ears; then, with difficulty, laboriously, voices started to break through the rubble and destruction, through the broken furniture and the inert bodies.

“Cuach op arse, ghoul y badraigh mal an cuach,” spat Crach an Craite, spraying blood from his bitten lip.

“Control yourself, Crach,” said Mousesack with effort, shaking buckwheat from his front. “There are women present.” “Calanthe. My beloved. My Calanthe!” Eist Tuirseach said in the pauses between kisses.

The queen opened her eyes but didn’t try to free herself from his embrace.

“Eist. People are watching,” she said.

“Let them watch.”

“Would somebody care to explain what that was?” asked Marshal Vissegerd, crawling from beneath a fallen tapestry.

“No,” said the witcher.

“A doctor!” Windhalm of Attre, leaning over Rainfarn, shouted shrilly.

“Water!” Wieldhill, one of the brothers from Strept, called, stifling the smoldering tapestry with his jacket. “Water, quickly!” “And beer!” Coodcoodak croaked.

A few knights, still able to stand, were trying to lift Pavetta, but she pushed their hands aside, got up on her own and, unsteadily, walked toward the hearth. There, with his back resting against the wall, sat Urcheon, awkwardly trying to remove his blood-smeared armor.

“The youth of today,” snorted Mousesack, looking in their direction. “They start early! They’ve only got one thing on their minds.” “What’s that?”

“Didn’t you know, witcher, that a virgin, that is one who’s untouched, wouldn’t be able to use the Force?” “To hell with her virginity,” muttered Geralt. “Where did she get such a gift anyway? Neither Calanthe nor Roegner—” “She inherited it, missing a generation, and no mistake,” said the druid. “Her grandmother, Adalia, could raise a drawbridge with a twitch of her eyebrows. Hey, Geralt, look at that! She still hasn’t had enough!” Calanthe, supported by Eist Tuirseach’s arm, indicated the wounded Urcheon to the guards. Geralt and Mousesack approached quickly but unnecessarily. The guards recoiled from the semi-reclining figure and, whispering and muttering, backed away.

Urcheon’s monstrous snout softened, blurred and was beginning to lose its contours. The spikes and bristles rippled and became black, shiny, wavy hair and a beard which bordered a pale, angular, masculine face, dominated by a prominent nose.

“What…” stammered Eist Tuirseach. “Who’s that? Urcheon?”

“Duny,” said Pavetta softly.

Calanthe turned away with pursed lips.

“Cursed?” murmured Eist. “But how—”

“Midnight has struck,” said the witcher. “Just this minute. The bell we heard before was early. The bell-ringer’s mistake. Am I right, Calanthe?” “Right, right,” groaned the man called Duny, answering instead of the queen, who had no intention of replying anyway. “But maybe instead of standing there talking, someone could help me with this armor and call a doctor. That madman Rainfarn stabbed me under the ribs.” “What do we need a doctor for?” said Mousesack, taking out his wand.

“Enough.” Calanthe straightened and raised her head proudly. “Enough of this. When all this is over, I want to see you in my chamber. All of you, as you stand. Eist, Pavetta, Mousesack, Geralt and you…Duny. Mousesack?” “Yes, your Majesty.”

“That wand of yours…I’ve bruised my backbone. And thereabouts.”

“At your command, your Majesty.”

III

“…a curse,” continued Duny, rubbing his temple. “Since birth. I never found a reason for it, or who did it to me. From midnight to dawn, an ordinary man, from dawn…you saw what. Akerspaark, my father, wanted to hide it. People are superstitious in Maecht; spells and curses in the royal family could prove fatal for the dynasty. One of my father’s knights took me away from court and brought me up. The two of us wandered around the world—the knight errant and his squire, and later, when he died, I journeyed alone. I can’t remember who told me that a child-surprise could free me from the curse. Not long after that, I met Roegner. The rest you know.” “The rest we know, or can guess.” Calanthe nodded. “Especially that you didn’t wait the fifteen years agreed upon with Roegner but turned my daughter’s head before that. Pavetta! Since when?” The princess lowered her head and raised a finger.

“There. You little sorceress. Right under my nose! Let me just find out who let him into the castle at night! Let me at the ladies-in-waiting you went gathering primroses with. Primroses, dammit! Well, what am I to do with you now?” “Calanthe—” began Eist.

“Hold on, Tuirseach. I haven’t finished yet. Duny, the matter’s become very complicated. You’ve been with Pavetta for a year now, and what? And nothing. So you negotiated the oath from the wrong father. Destiny has made a fool of you. What irony, as Geralt of Rivia, present here, is wont to say.” “To hell with destiny, oaths and irony.” Duny grimaced. “I love Pavetta and she loves me; that’s all that counts. You can’t stand in the way of our happiness.” “I can, Duny, I can, and how.” Calanthe smiled one of her unfailing smiles. “You’re lucky I don’t want to. I have a certain debt toward you, Duny. I’d made up my mind…I ought to ask your forgiveness, but I hate doing that. So I’m giving you Pavetta and we’ll be quits. Pavetta? You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” The princess shook her head eagerly.

“Thank you, your Majesty. Thank you.” Duny smiled. “You’re a wise and generous queen.” “Of course I am. And beautiful.”

“And beautiful.”

“You can both stay in Cintra if you wish. The people here are less superstitious than the inhabitants of Maecht and adjust to things quicker. Besides, even as Urcheon you were quite pleasant. But you can’t count on having the throne just yet. I intend to reign a little longer beside the new king of Cintra. The noble Eist Tuirseach of Skellige has made me a very interesting proposition.” “Calanthe—”

“Yes, Eist, I accept. I’ve never before listened to a confession of love while lying on the floor amidst fragments of my own throne but…How did you put it, Duny? This is all that counts and I don’t advise anyone to stand in the way of my happiness. And you, what are you staring at? I’m not as old as you think.” “Today’s youth,” muttered Mousesack. “The apple doesn’t fall far—”

“What are you muttering, sorcerer?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Good. While we’re at it, I’ve got a proposition for you, Mousesack. Pavetta’s going to need a teacher. She ought to learn how to use her gift. I like this castle, and I’d prefer it to remain standing. It might fall apart at my talented daughter’s next attack of hysteria. How about it, Druid?” “I’m honored.”

“I think”—the queen turned her head toward the window—��it’s dawn. Time to—”

She suddenly turned to where Pavetta and Duny were whispering to each other, holding hands, their foreheads all but touching.

“Duny!”

“Yes, your Majesty?”

“Do you hear? It’s dawn! It’s already light. And you…”

Geralt glanced at Mousesack and both started laughing.

“And why are you so happy, sorcerers? Can’t you see—?”

“We can, we can,” Geralt assured her.

“We were waiting until you saw for yourself,” snorted Mousesack. “I was wondering when you’d catch on.” “To what?”

“That you’ve lifted the curse. It’s you who’s lifted it,” said the witcher. “The moment you said ‘I’m giving you Pavetta,’ destiny was fulfilled.” “Exactly,” confirmed the druid.

“Oh gods,” said Duny slowly. “So, finally. Damn, I thought I’d be happier, that some sort of trumpets would play or…Force of habit. Your Majesty! Thank you. Pavetta, do you hear?” “Mhm,” said the princess without raising her eyes.

“And so,” sighed Calanthe, looking at Geralt with tired eyes, “all’s well that ends well. Don’t you agree, witcher? The curse has been lifted, two weddings are on their way, it’ll take about a month to repair the throne-room, there are four dead, countless wounded and Rain-farn of Attre is half-dead. Let’s celebrate. Do you know, witcher, that there was a moment when I wanted to have you—” “I know.”

“But now I have to do you justice. I demanded a result and got one. Cintra is allied to Skellige. My daughter’s marrying the right man. For a moment I thought all this would have been fulfilled according to destiny anyway, even if I hadn’t had you brought in for the feast and sat you next to me. But I was wrong. Rainfarn’s dagger could have changed destiny. And Rainfarn was stopped by a sword held by a witcher. You’ve done an honest job, Geralt. Now it’s a question of price. Tell me what you want.” “Hold on,” said Duny, fingering his bandaged side. “A question of price, you say. It is I who am in debt; it’s up to me—” “Don’t interrupt.” Calanthe narrowed her eyes. “Your mother-in-law hates being interrupted. Remember that. And you should know that you’re not in any debt. It so happens that you were the subject of my agreement with Geralt. I said we’re quits and I don’t see the sense of my having to endlessly apologize to you for it. But the agreement still binds me. Well, Geralt. Your price.” “Very well,” said the witcher. “I ask for your green sash, Calanthe. May it always remind me of the color of the eyes of the most beautiful queen I have ever known.” Calanthe laughed, and unfastened her emerald necklace.

“This trinket,” she said, “has stones of the right hue. Keep it, and the memory.”

“May I speak?” asked Duny modestly.

“But of course, son-in-law, please do, please do.”

“I still say I am in your debt, witcher. It is my life that Rainfarn’s dagger endangered. I would have been beaten to death by the guards without you. If there’s talk of a price, then I should be the one to pay. I assure you I can afford it. What do you ask, Geralt?” “Duny,” said Geralt slowly, “a witcher who is asked such a question has to ask to have it repeated.” “I repeat, therefore. Because, you see, I am in your debt for still another reason. When I found out who you were, there in the hall, I hated you and thought very badly of you. I took you for a blind, bloodthirsty tool, for someone who kills coldly and without question, who wipes his blade clean of blood and counts the cash. But I’ve become convinced that the witcher’s profession is worthy of respect. You protect us not only from the evil lurking in the darkness, but also from that which lies within ourselves. It’s a shame there are so few of you.” Calanthe smiled.

For the first time that night, Geralt was inclined to believe it was genuine.

“My son-in-law has spoken well. I have to add two words to what he said. Precisely two. Forgive, Geralt.” “And I,” said Duny, “ask again. What do you ask for?”

“Duny,” said Geralt seriously, “Calanthe, Pavetta. And you, righteous knight Tuirseach, future king of Cintra. In order to become a witcher, you have to be born in the shadow of destiny, and very few are born like that. That’s why there are so few of us. We’re growing old, dying, without anyone to pass our knowledge, our gifts, on to. We lack successors. And this world is full of Evil which waits for the day none of us are left.” “Geralt,” whispered Calanthe.

“Yes, you’re not wrong, queen. Duny! You will give me that which you already have but do not know. I’ll return to Cintra in six years to see if destiny has been kind to me.” “Pavetta.” Duny opened his eyes wide. “Surely you’re not—”

“Pavetta!” exclaimed Calanthe. “Are you…are you—?”

The princess lowered her eyes and blushed. Then replied.