The Edge Of The World

Dandilion came down the steps of the inn carefully, carrying two tankards dripping with froth. Cursing under his breath, he squeezed through a group of curious children and crossed the yard at a diagonal, avoiding the cowpats.

A number of villagers had already gathered round the table in the courtyard where the witcher was talking to the alderman. The poet set the tankards down and found a seat. He realized straight away that the conversation hadn’t advanced a jot during his short absence.

“I’m a witcher, sir,” Geralt repeated for the umpteenth time, wiping beer froth from his lips. “I don’t sell anything. I don’t go around enlisting men for the army and I don’t know how to treat glanders. I’m a witcher.” “It’s a profession,” explained Dandilion yet again. “A witcher, do you understand? He kills strigas and specters. He exterminates all sorts of vermin. Professionally, for money. Do you get it, alderman?” “Aha!” The alderman’s brow, deeply furrowed in thought, grew smoother. “A witcher! You should have said so right away!” “Exactly,” agreed Geralt. “So now I’ll ask you: is there any work to be found around here for me?” “Aaaa.” The alderman quite visibly started to think again. “Work? Maybe those…Well…werethings? You’re asking are there any werethings hereabouts?” The witcher smiled and nodded, rubbing an itching eyelid with his knuckles.

“That there are,” the alderman concluded after a fair while. “Only look ye yonder, see ye those mountains? There’s elves live there; that there is their kingdom. Their palaces, hear ye, are all of pure gold. Oh aye, sir! Elves, I tell ye. ‘Tis awful. He who yonder goes, never returns.” “I thought so,” said Geralt coldly. “Which is precisely why I don’t intend going there.” Dandilion chuckled impudently.

The alderman pondered a long while, just as Geralt had expected.

“Aha,” he said at last. “Well, aye. But there be other werethings here too. From the land of elves they come, to be sure. Oh, sir, there be many, many. ‘Tis hard to count them all. But the worst, that be the Bane, am I right, my good men?” The “good men” came to life and besieged the table from all sides.

“Bane!” said one. “Aye, aye, ‘tis true what the alderman says. A pale virgin, she walks the cottages at day break, and the children, they die!” “And imps,” added another, a soldier from the watchtower. “They tangle up the horses’ manes in the stables!” “And bats! There be bats here!”

“And myriapodans! You come up all in spots because of them!”

The next few minutes passed in a recital of the monsters which plagued the local peasants with their dishonorable doings, or their simple existence. Geralt and Dandilion learned of misguids and mamunes, which prevent an honest peasant from finding his way home in a drunken stupor, of the flying drake which drinks milk from cows, of the head on spider’s legs which runs around in the forest, of hobolds which wear red hats and about a dangerous pike which tears linen from women’s hands as they wash it—and just you wait and it’ll be at the women themselves. They weren’t spared hearing that old Nan the Hag flies on a broom at night and performs abortions in the day, that the miller tampers with the flour by mixing it with powdered acorns and that a certain Duda believed the royal steward to be a thief and scoundrel.

Geralt listened to all this calmly, nodding with feigned interest, and asked a few questions about the roads and layout of the land, after which he rose and nodded to Dandilion.

“Well, take care, my good people,” he said. “I’ll be back soon; then we’ll see what can be done.” They rode away in silence alongside the cottages and fences, accompanied by yapping dogs and screaming children.

“Geralt,” said Dandilion, standing in the stirrups to pick a fine apple from a branch which stretched over the orchard fence, “all the way you’ve been complaining about it being harder and harder to find work. Yet from what I just heard, it looks as if you could work here without break until winter. You’d make a penny or two, and I’d have some beautiful subjects for my ballads. So explain why we’re riding on.” “I wouldn’t make a penny, Dandilion.”

“Why?”

“Because there wasn’t a word of truth in what they said.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“None of the creatures they mentioned exist.”

“You’re joking!” Dandilion spat out a pip and threw the apple core at a patched mongrel. “No, it’s impossible. I was watching them carefully, and I know people. They weren’t lying.” “No,” the witcher agreed. “They weren’t lying. They firmly believed it all. Which doesn’t change the facts.” The poet was silent for a while.

“None of those monsters…None? It can’t be. Something of what they listed must be here. At least one! Admit it.” “All right. I admit it. One does exist for sure.”

“Ha! What?”

“A bat.”

They rode out beyond the last fences, on to a highway between beds yellow with oilseed and cornfields rolling in the wind. Loaded carts traveled past them in the opposite direction. The bard pulled his leg over the saddlebow, rested his lute on his knee and strummed nostalgic tunes, waving from time to time at the giggling, scantily clad girls wandering along the sides of the road carrying rakes on their robust shoulders.

“Geralt,” he said suddenly, “but monsters do exist. Maybe not as many as before, maybe they don’t lurk behind every tree in the forest, but they are there. They exist. So how do you account for people inventing ones, then? What’s more, believing in what they invent? Eh, famous witcher? Haven’t you wondered why?” “I have, famous poet. And I know why.”

“I’m curious.”

“People”—Geralt turned his head—“like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem less monstrous themselves. When they get blind-drunk, cheat, steal, beat their wives, starve an old woman, when they kill a trapped fox with an axe or riddle the last existing unicorn with arrows, they like to think that the Bane entering cottages at daybreak is more monstrous than they are. They feel better then. They find it easier to live.” “I’ll remember that,” said Dandilion, after a moment’s silence. “I’ll find some rhymes and compose a ballad about it.” “Do. But don’t expect a great applause.”

They rode slowly but lost the last cottages of the hamlet from sight. Soon they had climbed the row of forested hills.

“Ha.” Dandilion halted his horse and looked around. “Look, Geralt. Isn’t it beautiful here? Idyllic, damn it. A feast for the eyes!” The land sloped gently down to a mosaic of flat, even fields picked out in variously colored crops. In the middle, round and regular like a leaf of clover, sparkled the deep waters of three lakes surrounded by dark strips of alder thickets. The horizon was traced by a misty blue line of mountains rising above the black, shapeless stretch of forest.

“We’re riding on, Dandilion.”

The road led straight toward the lakes alongside dykes and ponds hidden by alder trees and filled with quacking mallards, garganeys, herons and grebes. The richness of bird life was surprising alongside the signs of human activity—the dykes were well maintained and covered with fascines, while the sluice gates had been reinforced with stones and beams. The outlet boxes, which were not in the least rotten, trickled merrily with water. Canoes and jetties were visible in the reeds by the lakes and bars of set nets and fish-pots were poking out of the deep waters.

Dandilion suddenly looked around.

“Someone’s following us,” he said, excited. “In a cart!”

“Incredible,” scoffed the witcher without looking around. “In a cart? And I thought that the locals rode on bats.” “Do you know what?” growled the troubadour. “The closer we get to the edge of the world, the sharper your wit. I dread to think what it will come to!” They weren’t riding fast and the empty cart, drawn by two piebald horses, quickly caught up with them.

“Woooooaaaaahhhh!” The driver brought the horses to a halt just behind them. He was wearing a sheepskin over his bare skin and his hair reached down to his brows. “The gods be praised, noble sirs!” “We, too,” replied Dandilion, familiar with the custom, “praise them.”

“If we want to,” murmured the witcher.

“I call myself Nettly,” announced the carter. “I was watching ye speak to the alderman at Upper Posada. I know ye tae be a witcher.” Geralt let go of the reins and let his mare snort at the roadside nettles.

“I did hear,” Nettly continued, “the alderman prattle ye stories. I marked your expression and ‘twas nae strange to me. In a long time now I’ve nae heard such balderdash and lies.” Dandilion laughed.

Geralt was looking at the peasant attentively, silently.

Nettly cleared his throat. “Care ye nae to be hired for real, proper work, sir?” he asked. “There’d be something I have for ye.” “And what is that?”

Nettly didn’t lower his eyes. “It be nae good to speak of business on the road. Let us drive on to my home, to Lower Posada. There we’ll speak. Anyways, ‘tis that way ye be heading.” “Why are you so sure?”

“As ‘cos ye have nae other way here, and yer horses’ noses be turned in that direction, not their butts.” Dandilion laughed again. “What do you say to that, Geralt?”

“Nothing,” said the witcher. “It’s no good to talk on the road. On our way, then, honorable Nettly.” “Tie ye the horses to the frame, and sit yerselves down in the cart,” the peasant proposed. “It be more comfortable for ye. Why rack yer arses on the saddle?” “Too true.”

They climbed onto the cart. The witcher stretched out comfortably on the straw. Dandilion, evidently afraid of getting his elegant green jerkin dirty, sat on the plank. Nettly clucked his tongue at the horses and the vehicle clattered along the beam-reinforced dyke.

They crossed a bridge over a canal overgrown with water lilies and duckweed, and passed a strip of cut meadows. Cultivated fields stretched as far as the eye could see.

“It’s hard to believe that this should be the edge of the world, the edge of civilization,” said Dandilion. “Just look, Geralt. Rye like gold, and a mounted peasant could hide in that corn. Or that oilseed, look, how enormous.” “You know about agriculture?”

“We poets have to know about everything,” said Dandilion haughtily. “Otherwise we’d compromise our work. One has to learn, my dear fellow, learn. The fate of the world depends on agriculture, so it’s good to know about it. Agriculture feeds, clothes, protects from the cold, provides entertainment and supports art.” “You’ve exaggerated a bit with the entertainment and art.”

“And booze, what’s that made of?”

“I get it.”

“Not very much, you don’t. Learn. Look at those purple flowers. They’re lupins.” “They’s be vetch, to be true,” interrupted Nettly. “Have ye nae seen lupins, or what? But ye have hit exact with one thing, sir. Everything seeds mightily here, and grows as to make the heart sing. That be why ‘tis called the Valley of Flowers. That be why our forefathers settled here, first ridding the land of the elves.” “The Valley of Flowers, that’s Dol Blathanna.” Dandilion nudged the witcher, who was stretched out on the straw, with his elbow. “You paying attention? The elves have gone but their name remains. Lack of imagination. And how do you get on with the elves here, dear host? You’ve got them in the mountains across the path, after all.” “We nae mix with each other. Each to his own.”

“The best solution,” said the poet. “Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

The witcher didn’t reply.

II

“Thank you for the spread.” Geralt licked the bone spoon clean and dropped it into the empty bowl. “A hundred thanks, dear host. And now, if you permit, we’ll get down to business.” “Well, that we can,” agreed Nettly. “What say ye, Dhun?”

Dhun, the elder of Lower Posada, a huge man with a gloomy expression, nodded to the girls who swiftly removed the dishes from the table and left the room, to the obvious regret of Dandilion who had been grinning at them ever since the feast began, and making them giggle at his gross jokes.

“I’m listening,” said Geralt, looking at the window from where the rapping of an axe and the sound of a saw drifted. Some sort of woodwork was going on in the yard and the sharp, resinous smell was penetrating the room. “Tell me how I can be of use to you.” Nettly glanced at Dhun.

The elder of the village nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, it be like this,” he said. “There be this field hereabouts—” Geralt kicked Dandilion—who was preparing to make a spiteful comment—under the table.

“—a field,” continued Dhun. “Be I right, Nettly? A long time, that field there, it lay fallow, but we set it to the plough and now, ‘tis on it we sow hemp, hops and flax. It be a grand piece of field, I tell ye. Stretches right up to the forest—” “And what?” The poet couldn’t help himself. “What’s on that field there?” “Well.” Dhun raised his head and scratched himself behind the ear. “Well, there be a deovel prowls there.” “What?” snorted Dandilion. “A what?”

“I tell ye: a deovel.”

“What deovel?”

“What can he be? A deovel and that be it.”

“Devils don’t exist!”

“Don’t interrupt, Dandilion,” said Geralt in a calm voice. “And go on, honorable Dhun.” “I tell ye: it’s a deovel.”

“I heard you.” Geralt could be incredibly patient when he chose. “Tell me, what does he look like, where did he come from, how does he bother you? One thing at a time, if you please.” “Well”—Dhun raised his gnarled hand and started to count with great difficulty, folding his fingers over, one at a time—“one thing at a time. Forsooth, ye be a wise man. Well, it be like this. He looks, sir, like a deovel, for all the world like a deovel. Where did he come from? Well, nowhere. Crash, bang, wallop and there we have him: a deovel. And bother us, forsooth he doesnae bother us overly. There be times he even helps.” “Helps?” cackled Dandilion, trying to remove a fly from his beer. “A devil?” “Don’t interrupt, Dandilion. Carry on, Dhun, sir. How does he help you, this, as you say—” “Deovel,” repeated the freeman with emphasis. “Well, this be how he helps: he fertilizes the land, he turns the soil, he gets rid of the moles, scares birds away, watches over the turnips and beetroots. Oh, and he eats the caterpillars he does, they as do hatch in the cabbages. But the cabbages, he eats them too, forsooth. Nothing but guzzle, be what he does. Just like a deovel.” Dandilion cackled again, then flicked a beer-drenched fly at a cat sleeping by the hearth. The cat opened one eye and glanced at the bard reproachfully.

“Nevertheless,” the witcher said calmly, “you’re ready to pay me to get rid of him, am I right? In other words, you don’t want him in the vicinity?” “And who”—Dhun looked at him gloomily—“would care to have a deovel on his birthright soil? This be our land since forever, bestowed upon us by the king and it has nought to do with the deovel. We spit on his help. We’ve got hands ourselves, have we not? And he, sir, is nay a deovel but a malicious beast and has got so much, forgive the word, shite in his head as be hard to bear. There be no knowing what will come into his head. Once he fouled the well, then chased a lass, frightening and threatening to fuck her. He steals, sir, our belongings and victuals. He destroys and breaks things, makes a nuisance of himself, churns the dykes, digs ditches like some muskrat or beaver—the water from one pond trickled out completely and the carp in it died. He smoked a pipe in the haystack he did, the son-of-a-whore, and all the hay it went up in smoke—” “I see,” interrupted Geralt. “So he does bother you.”

“Nay.” Dhun shook his head. “He doesnae bother us. He be simply up to mischief, that’s what he be.” Dandilion turned to the window, muffling his laughter.

The witcher kept silent.

“Oh, what be there to talk about,” said Nettly who had been silent until then. “Ye be a witcher, nae? So do ye something about this deovel. It be work ye be looking for in Upper Posada. I heard so myself. So ye have work. We’ll pay ye what needs be. But take note: we don’t want ye killing the deovel. No way.” The witcher raised his head and smiled nastily. “Interesting,” he said. “Unusual, I’d say.” “What?” Dhun frowned.

“An unusual condition. Why all this mercy?”

“He should nae be killed.” Dhun frowned even more. “Because in this Valley—” “He should nae and that be it,” interrupted Nettly. “Only catch him, sir, or drive him off yon o’er the seventh mountain. And ye will nae be hard done by when ye be paid.” The witcher stayed silent, still smiling.

“Seal it, will ye, the deal?” asked Dhun.

“First, I’d like a look at him, this devil of yours.”

The freemen glanced at each other.

“It be yer right,” said Nettly, then stood up. “And yer will. The deovel he do prowl the whole neighborhood at night but at day he dwells somewhere in the hemp. Or among the old willows on the marshland. Ye can take a look at him there. We won’t hasten ye. Ye be wanting rest, then rest as long as ye will. Ye will nae go wanting in comfort and food as befits the custom of hospitality. Take care.” “Geralt.” Dandilion jolted up from his stool and looked out into the yard at the freemen walking away from the cottage. “I can’t understand anything anymore. A day hasn’t gone by since our chat about imagined monsters and you suddenly get yourself hired hunting devils. And everybody—except ignorant freemen obviously—knows that devils are an invention; they’re mythical creatures. What’s this unexpected zeal of yours supposed to mean? Knowing you a little as I do, I take it you haven’t abased yourself so as to get us bed, board and lodging, have you?” “Indeed.” Geralt grimaced. “It does look as if you know me a little, singer.” “In that case, I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“There’s no such things as devils!” yelled the poet, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all. “No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don’t exist!” “True.” Geralt smiled. “But, Dandilion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at something that doesn’t exist.” III

“One thing is certain,” muttered the witcher, sweeping his eyes over the tangled jungle of hemp spreading before them. “This devil is not stupid.” “How did you deduce that?” Dandilion was curious. “From the fact that he’s sitting in an impenetrable thicket? Any old hare has enough brains for that.” “It’s a question of the special qualities of hemp. A field of this size emits a strong aura against magic. Most spells will be useless here. And there, look, do you see those poles? Those are hops—their pollen has the same effect. It’s not mere chance. The rascal senses the aura and knows he’s safe here.” Dandilion coughed and adjusted his breeches. “I’m curious.” He scratched his forehead beneath his hat. “How are you going to go about it, Geralt? I’ve never seen you work. I take it you know a thing or two about catching devils—I’m trying to recall some ballads. There was one about a devil and a woman. Rude, but amusing. The woman, you see—” “Spare me, Dandilion.”

“As you wish. I only wanted to be helpful, that’s all. And you shouldn’t scorn ancient songs. There’s wisdom in them, accumulated over generations. There’s a ballad about a farmhand called Slow, who—” “Stop wittering. We have to earn our board and lodging.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Rummage around a bit in the hemp.”

“That’s original,” snorted the troubadour. “Though not too refined.”

“And you, how would you go about it?”

“Intelligently.” Dandilion sniffed. “Craftily. With a hounding, for example. I’d chase the devil out of the thicket, chase him on horseback, in the open field, and lasso him. What do you think of that?” “Interesting. Who knows, maybe it could be done, if you took part—because at least two of us are needed for an enterprise like that. But we’re not going hunting yet. I want to find out what this thing is, this devil. That’s why I’m going to rummage about in the hemp.” “Hey!” The bard had only just noticed. “You haven’t brought your sword!”

“What for? I know some ballads about devils, too. Neither the woman nor Slow the farmhand used a sword.” “Hmm…” Dandilion looked around. “Do we have to squeeze through the very middle of this thicket?” “You don’t have to. You can go back to the village and wait for me.”

“Oh, no,” protested the poet. “And miss a chance like this? I want to see a devil too, see if he’s as terrible as they claim. I was asking if we have to force our way through the hemp when there’s a path.” “Quite right.” Geralt shaded his eyes with his hand. “There is a path. So let’s use it.” “And what if it’s the devil’s path?”

“All the better. We won’t have to walk too far.”

“Do you know, Geralt,” babbled the bard, following the witcher along the narrow, uneven path among the hemp. “I always thought the devil was just a metaphor invented for cursing: ‘go to the devil’, ‘to the devil with it’, ‘may the devil.’ Lowlanders say: ‘The devils are bringing us guests,’ while dwarves have ‘Duvvel hoael’ when they get something wrong, and call poor-blooded livestock devvelsheyss. And in the Old Language, there’s a saying, ‘A d’yaebl aep arse,’ which means—” “I know what it means. You’re babbling, Dandilion.”

Dandilion stopped talking, took off the hat decorated with a heron’s feather, fanned himself with it and wiped his sweaty brow. The humid, stifling heat, intensified by the smell of grass and weeds in blossom, dominated the thicket. The path curved a little and, just beyond the bend, ended in a small clearing which had been stamped in the weeds.

“Look, Dandilion.”

In the very center of the clearing lay a large, flat stone, and on it stood several clay bowls. An almost burnt-out tallow candle was set among the bowls. Geralt saw some grains of corn and broad beans among the unrecognizable pips and seeds stuck in the flakes of melted fat.

“As I suspected,” he muttered. “They’re bringing him offerings.”

“That’s just it,” said the poet, indicating the candle. “And they burn a tallow candle for the devil. But they’re feeding him seeds, I see, as if he were a finch. Plague, what a bloody pigsty. Everything here is all sticky with honey and birch tar. What—“The bard’s next words were drowned by a loud, sinister bleating. Something rustled and stamped in the hemp; then the strangest creature Geralt had ever seen emerged from the thicket.

The creature was about half a rod tall with bulging eyes and a goat’s horns and beard. The mouth, a soft, busy slit, also brought a chewing goat to mind. Its nether regions were covered with long, thick, dark-red hair right down to the cleft hooves. The devil had a long tail ending in a brush-like tassel which wagged energetically.

“Uk! Uk!” barked the monster, stamping his hooves. “What do you want here? Leave! Leave or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!” “Has anyone ever kicked your arse, little goat?” Dandilion couldn’t stop himself.

“Uk! Uk! Beeeeee!” bleated the goathorn in agreement, or denial, or simply bleating for the sake of it.

“Shut up, Dandilion,” growled the witcher. “Not a word.”

“Blebleblebeeeee!” The creature gurgled furiously, his lips parting wide to expose yellow horse-like teeth. “Uk! Uk! Bleubeeeeubleuuuuubleeeeeeee!” “Most certainly”—nodded Dandilion—“you can take the barrel-organ and bell when you go home—” “Stop it, damn you,” hissed Geralt. “Keep your stupid jokes to yourself—” “Jokes!” roared the goathorn loudly and leapt up. “Jokes? New jokers have come, have they? They’ve brought iron balls, have they? I’ll give you iron balls, you scoundrels, you. Uk! Uk! Uk! You want to joke, do you? Here are some jokes for you! Here are your balls!” The creature sprang up and gave a sudden swipe with his hand. Dandilion howled and sat down hard on the path, clasping his forehead. The creature bleated and aimed again. Something whizzed past Geralt’s ear.

“Here are your balls! Brrreee!”

An iron ball, an inch in diameter, thwacked the witcher in the shoulder and the next hit Dandilion in the knee. The poet cursed foully and scrambled away, Geralt running after him as balls whizzed above his head.

“Uk! Uk!” screamed the goathorn, leaping up and down. “I’ll give you balls! You shitty jokers!” Another ball whizzed through the air. Dandilion cursed even more foully as he grabbed the back of his head. Geralt threw himself to one side, among the hemp, but didn’t avoid the ball that hit him in the shoulder. The goathorn’s aim was true and he appeared to have an endless supply of balls. The witcher, stumbling through the thicket, heard yet another triumphant bleat from the victorious goathorn, followed by the whistle of a flying ball, a curse and the patter of Dandilion’s feet scurrying away along the path.

And then silence fell.

IV

“Well, well, Geralt.” Dandilion held a horseshoe he’d cooled in a bucket to his forehead. “That’s not what I expected. A horned freak with a goatee like a shaggy billy goat, and he chased you away like some upstart. And I got it in the head. Look at that bump!” “That’s the sixth time you’ve shown it to me. And it’s no more interesting now than it was the first time.” “How charming. And I thought I’d be safe with you!”

“I didn’t ask you to traipse after me in the hemp, and I did ask you to keep that foul tongue of yours quiet. You didn’t listen, so now you can suffer. In silence, please, because they’re just coming.” Nettly and Dhun walked into the dayroom. Behind them hobbled a gray-haired old woman, twisted as a pretzel, led by a fair-haired and painfully thin teenage girl.

“Honorable Dhun, honorable Nettly,” the witcher began without introduction. “I asked you, before I left, whether you yourselves had already tried to do something with that devil of yours. You told me you hadn’t *done anything. I’ve grounds to think otherwise. I await your explanation.” The villagers murmured among themselves, after which Dhun coughed into his fist and took a step forward. “Ye be right, sir. Asking forgiveness. We lied—it be guilt devours us. We wanted to outwit the deovel ourselves, for him to go away—” “By what means?”

“Here in this Valley,” said Dhun slowly, “there be monsters in the past. Flying dragons, earth myriapodans, were-brawls, ghosts, gigantous spiders and various vipers. And all the times we be searching in our great booke for a way to deal with all that vermin.” “What great book?”

“Show the booke, old woman. Booke, I say. The great booke! I’ll be on the boil in a minute! Deaf as a doorknob, she be! Lille, tell the old woman to show the booke!” The girl tore the huge book from the taloned fingers of the old woman and handed it to the witcher.

“In this here great booke,” continued Dhun, “which be in our family clan for time immemorial, be ways to deal with every monster, spell and wonder in the world that has been, is, or will be.” Geralt turned the heavy, thick, greasy, dust-encrusted volume in his hands. The girl was still standing in front of him, wringing her apron in her hands. She was older than he had initially thought—her delicate figure had deceived him, so different from the robust build of the other girls in the village.

He lay the book down on the table and turned its heavy wooden cover. “Take a look at this, Dandilion.” “The first Runes,” the bard worked out, peering over his shoulder, the horseshoe still pressed to his forehead. “The writing used before the modern alphabet. Still based on elfin runes and dwarves’ ideograms. A funny sentence construction, but that’s how they spoke then. Interesting etchings and illuminations. It’s not often you get to see something like this, Geralt, and if you do, it’s in libraries belonging to temples and not villages at the edge of the world. By all the gods, where did you get that from, dear peasants? Surely you’re not going to try to convince me that you can read this? Woman? Can you read the First Runes? Can you read any runes?” “Whaaaat?”

The fair-haired girl moved closer to the woman and whispered something into her ear.

“Read?” The crony revealed her toothless gums in a smile. “Me? No, sweetheart. ‘Tis a skill I’ve ne’er mastered.” “Explain to me,” said Geralt coldly, turning to Dhun and Nettly, “how do you use the book if you can’t read runes?” “Always the oldest woman knows what stands written in the booke,” said Dhun gloomily. “And what she knows, she teaches some young one, when ‘tis time for her to turn to earth. Heed ye, yerselves, how ‘tis time for our old woman. So our old woman has taken Lille in and she be teaching her. But for now, ‘tis the old woman knows best.” “The old witch and the young witch,” muttered Dandilion.

“The old woman knows the whole book by heart?” Geralt asked with disbelief. “Is that right, Grandma?” “Nae the whole, oh nae,” answered the woman, again through Lille, “only what stands written by the picture.” “Ah.” Geralt opened the book at random. The picture on the torn page depicted a dappled pig with horns in the shape of a lyre. “Well then—what’s written here?” The old woman smacked her lips, took a careful look at the etching, then shut her eyes.

“The horned aurochs or Taurus,” she recited, “erroneously called bison by ignoramuses. It hath horns and useth them to ram—” “Enough. Very good, indeed.” The witcher turned several sticky pages. “And here?” “Cloud sprites and wind sprites be varied. Some rain pour, some wind roar, and others hurl their thunder. Harvests to protect from them, takest thou a knife of iron, new, of a mouse’s droppings a half ounce, of a gray heron’s fat—” “Good, well done. Hmm…And here? What’s this?”

The etching showed a disheveled monstrosity with enormous eyes and even larger teeth, riding a horse. In its right hand, the monstrous being wielded a substantial sword, in its left, a bag of money.

“A witchman,” mumbled the woman. “Called by some a witcher. To summon him is most dangerous, albeit one must; for when against the monster and the vermin there be no aid, the witchman can contrive. But careful one must be—” “Enough,” muttered Geralt. “Enough, Grandma. Thank you.”

“No, no,” protested Dandilion with a malicious smile. “How does it go on? What a greatly interesting book! Go on, Granny, go on.” “Eeee…But careful one must be to touch not the witchman, for thus the mange can one acquire. And lasses do from him hide away, for lustful the witchman is above all measure—” “Quite correct, spot on,” laughed the poet, and Lille, so it seemed to Geralt, smiled almost imperceptibly.

“—though the witchman greatly covetous and greedy for gold be,” mumbled the old woman, half-closing her eyes, “giveth ye not such a one more than: for a drowner, one silver penny or three halves; for a werecat, silver pennies two; for a plumard, silver pennies—” “Those were the days,” muttered the witcher. “Thank you, Grandma. And now show us where it speaks of the devil and what the book says about devils. This time ‘tis grateful I’d be to heareth more, for to learn the ways and meanes ye did use to deal with him most curious am I.” “Careful, Geralt,” chuckled Dandilion. “You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s an infectious mannerism.” The woman, controlling her shaking hands with difficulty, turned several pages. The witcher and the poet leaned over the table. The etching did, in effect, show the ball-thrower: horned, hairy, tailed and smiling maliciously.

“The deovel,” recited the woman. “Also called ‘willower’ or ‘sylvan.’ For livestock and domestic fowl, a tiresome and great pest is he. Be it your will to chase him from your hamlet, takest thou—” “Well, well,” murmured Dandilion.

“—takest thou of nuts, one fistful,” continued the woman, running her finger along the parchment. “Next, takest thou of iron balls a second fistful. Of honey an utricle, of birch tar a second. Of gray soap a firkin; of soft cheese another. There where the deovel dwelleth, goest thou when ‘tis night. Commenceth then to eat the nuts. Anon, the deovel who hath great greed, will hasten and ask if they are tasty indeed. Givest to him then the balls of iron—” “Damn you,” murmured Dandilion. “Pox take—”

“Quiet,” said Geralt. “Well, Grandma. Go on.”

“…having broken his teeth he will be attentive as thou eatest the honey. Of said honey will he himself desire. Givest him of birch tar, then yourself eateth soft cheese. Soon, hearest thou, will the deovel grumbleth and tumbleth, but makest of it as naught. Yet if the deovel desireth soft cheese, givest him soap. For soap the deovel withstandeth not—” “You got to the soap?” interrupted Geralt with a stony expression, turning toward Dhun and Nettly.

“In no way,” groaned Nettly. “If only we had got to the balls. But he gave us what for when he bit a ball—” “And who told you to give him so many?” Dandilion was enraged. “It stands written in the book, one fistful to take. Yet ye gaveth of balls a sackful! Ye furnished him with ammunition for two years, the fools ye be!” “Careful.” The witcher smiled. “You’re starting to fall into their jargon. It’s infectious.” “Thank you.”

Geralt suddenly raised his head and looked into the eyes of the girl standing by the woman. Lille didn’t lower her eyes. They were pale and wildly blue. “Why are you bringing the devil offerings in the form of grain?” he asked sharply. “After all, it’s obvious that he’s a typical herbivore.” Lille didn’t answer.

“I asked you a question, girl. Don’t be frightened, you won’t get the mange by talking to me.” “Don’t ask her anything, sir,” said Nettly, with obvious unease in his voice. “Lille…She…She be strange. She won’t answer you; don’t force her.” Geralt kept looking into Lille’s eyes, and Lille still met his gaze. He felt a shiver run down his back and creep along his shoulders.

“Why didn’t you attack the devil with stancheons and pitchforks.” He raised his voice. “Why didn’t you set a trap for him? If you’d wanted to, his goat’s head would already be spiked on a pole to frighten crows away. You warned me not to kill him. Why? You forbade it, didn’t you, Lille?” Dhun got up from the bench. His head almost touched the beams.

“Leave, lass,” he growled. “Take the old woman and leave.”

“Who is she, honorable Dhun?” the witcher demanded as the door closed behind Lille and the woman. “Who is that girl? Why does she enjoy more respect from you than that bloody book?” “It be nae yer business.” Dhun looked at him, and there was no friendliness in his eyes. “Persecute wise women in your own town, burn stakes in yer own land. There has been none of it here, nor will there be.” “You didn’t understand me,” said the witcher coldly.

“Because I did nae try,” growled Dhun.

“Pnoticed,” Geralt said through his teeth, making no effort to be cordial. “But be so gracious as to understand something, honorable Dhun. We have no agreement. I haven’t committed myself to you in any way. You have no reason to believe that you’ve bought yourself a witcher who, for a silver penny or three halves, will do what you can’t do yourselves. Or don’t want to do. Or aren’t allowed to. No, honorable Dhun. You have not bought yourself a witcher yet, and I don’t think you’ll succeed in doing so. Not with your reluctance to understand.” Dhun remained silent, measuring Geralt with a gloomy stare.

Nettly cleared his throat and wriggled on the bench, shuffling his rag sandals on the dirt floor, then suddenly straightened up.

“Witcher, sir,” he said. “Do nae be enraged. We will tell ye, what and how. Dhun?” The elder of the village nodded and sat down.

“As we be riding here,” began Nettly, “ye did notice how everything here grows, the great harvests we have? There be nae many places ye see all grow like this, if there be any such. Seedlings and seeds be so important to us that ‘tis with them we pay our levies and we sell them and use them to barter—” “What’s that got to do with the devil?”

“The deovel was wont to make a nuisance of himself and play silly tricks, and then he be starting to steal a great deal of grain. At the beginning, we be bringing him a little to the stone in the hemp, thinking his fill he’d eat and leave us in peace. Naught of it. With a vengeance he went on stealing. And when we started to hide our supplies in shops and sheds, well locked and bolted, ‘tis furious he grew, sir, he roared, bleated. ‘Uk! Uk!’ he called, and when he goes ‘Uk! Uk!’ ye’d do best to run for yer life. He threatened to—” “—screw,” Dandilion threw in with a ribald smile.

“That too,” agreed Nettly. “Oh, and he mentioned a fire. Talk long as we may, he could nae steal so ‘tis levies he demanded. He ordered grain and other goods be brought him by the sackful. Riled we were then and intending to beat his tailed arse. But—” The freeman cleared his throat and lowered his head.

“Ye need nae beat about the bush,” said Dhun suddenly. “We judged the witcher wrong. Tell him everything, Nettly.” “The old woman forbade us to beat the devil,” said Nettly quickly, “but we know ‘tis Lille, because the woman…The woman only says what Lille tell her to. And we…Ye know yerself, sir. We listen.” “I’ve noticed.” Geralt twisted his lips in a smile. “The woman can only waggle her chin and mumble a text which she doesn’t understand herself. And you stare at the girl, with gaping mouths, as if she were the statue of a goddess. You avoid her eyes but try to guess her wishes. And her wishes are your command. Who is this Lille of yours?” “But ye have guessed that, sir. A prophetess. A Wise One. But say naught of this to anyone. We ask ye. If word were to get to the steward, or, gods forbid, to the viceroy—” “Don’t worry,” said Geralt seriously. “I know what that means and I won’t betray you.” The strange women and girls, called prophetesses or Wise Ones, who could be found in villages, didn’t enjoy the favor of those noblemen who collected levies and profited from farming. Farmers always consulted prophetesses on everything and believed them, blindly and boundlessly. Decisions based on their advice were often completely contrary to the politics of lords and overlords. Geralt had heard of incomprehensible decrees—the slaughter of entire pedigree herds, the cessation of sowing or harvesting, and even the migration of entire villages. Local lords therefore opposed the superstition, often brutally, and freemen very quickly learned to hide the Wise Ones. But they didn’t stop listening to their advice. Because experience proved the Wise Ones were always right in the long run.

“Lille did not permit us to kill the deovel,” continued Nettly. “She told us to do what the booke says. As ye well know, it did nae work out. There has already been trouble with the steward. If we give less grain in levy than be normal, ‘tis bawl he will, shout and fulminate. Thus we have nay even squeaked to him of the deovel, the reason being the steward be ruthless and knows cruelly little about jokes. And then ye happened along. We asked Lille if we could…hire ye—” “And?”

“She said, through the woman, that she need first of all to look at ye.” “And she did.” “That she did. And accepted ye she has, that we know. We can tell what Lille accepts and what she doesnae.” “She never said a word to me.”

“She ne’er has spoken word to anyone—save the old woman. But if she had not accepted ye, she would nay have entered the room for all in the world—” “Hmm…” Geralt reflected. “That’s interesting. A prophetess who, instead of prophesying, doesn’t say a word. How did she come to be among you?” “We nae know, witcher, sir,” muttered Dhun. “But as for the old woman, so the older folk remember, it be like this. The old woman afore her took a close-tongued girl under her wing too, one as which came from no one knows. And that girl she be our old woman. My grandfather would say the old woman be reborn that way. Like the moon she be reborn in the sky and ever new she be. Do nae laugh—” “I’m not laughing.” Geralt shook his head. “I’ve seen too much to laugh at things like that. Nor do I intend to poke my nose into your affairs, honorable Dhun. My questions aim to establish the bond between Lille and the devil. You’ve probably realized yourselves that one exists. So if you’re anxious to be on good terms with your prophetess, then I can give you only one way to deal with the devil: you must get to like him.” “Know ye, sir,” said Nettly, “it be nae only a matter of the deovel. Lille does nae let us harm anything. Any creature.” “Of course,” Dandilion butted in, “country prophetesses grow from the same tree as druids. And a druid will go so far as to wish the gadfly sucking his blood to enjoy its meal.” “Ye hits it on the head.” Nettly faintly smiled. “Ye hits the nail right on the head. ‘Twas the same with us and the wild boars that dug up our vegetable beds. Look out the window: beds as pretty as a picture. We have found a way, Lille doesnae even know. What the eyes do nay see, the heart will nae miss. Understand?” “I understand,” muttered Geralt. “And how. But we can’t move forward. Lille or no Lille, your devil is a sylvan. An exceptionally rare but intelligent creature. I won’t kill him; my code doesn’t allow it.” “If he be intelligent,” said Dhun, “go speak reason to him.”

“Just so,” Nettly joined in. “If the deovel has brains, that will mean he steals grain according to reason. So ye, witcher, find out what he wants. He does nae eat that grain, after all—not so much, at least. So what does he want grain for? To spite us? What does he want? Find out and chase him off in some witcher way. Will ye do that?” “I’ll try,” decided Geralt. “But…”

“But what?”

“Your book, my friends, is out of date. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Well, forsooth,” grunted Dhun, “not really.”

“I’ll explain. Honorable Dhun, honorable Nettly, if you’re counting on my help costing you a silver penny or three halves, then you are bloody well mistaken.” V

“Hey!”

A rustle, an angry Uk! Uk! and the snapping of stakes, reached them from the thicket.

“Hey!” repeated the witcher, prudently remaining hidden. “Show yourself, willower.” “Willower yourself.”

“So what is it? Devil?”

“Devil yourself.” The sylvan poked his head out from the hemp, baring his teeth. “What do you want?” “To talk.”

“Are you making fun of me or what? Do you think I don’t know who you are? The peasants hired you to throw me out of here, eh?” “That’s right,” admitted Geralt indifferently. “And that’s precisely what I wanted to chat to you about. What if we were to come to an understanding?” “That’s where it hurts,” bleated the sylvan. “You’d like to get off lightly, wouldn’t you? Without making an effort, eh? Pull the other one! Life, my good man, means competition. The best man wins. If you want to win with me, prove you’re the best. Instead of coming to an understanding, we’ll have competitions. The winner dictates the conditions. I propose a race from here to the old willow on the dyke.” “I don’t know where the dyke is, or the old willow.”

“I wouldn’t suggest the race if you knew. I like competitions but I don’t like losing.” “I’ve noticed. No, we won’t race each other. It’s very hot today.”

“Pity. So maybe we’ll pit ourselves against each other in a different way?” The sylvan bared his yellow teeth and picked up a large stone from the ground. “Do you know the game ‘Who shouts loudest?’ I shout first. Close your eyes.” “I have a different proposition.”

“I’m all ears.”

“You leave here without any competitions, races or shouting. Of your own accord, without being forced.” “You can shove such a proposition a d’yeabl aep arse.” The devil demonstrated his knowledge of the Old Language. “I won’t leave here. I like it here.” “But you’ve made too much of a nuisance of yourself here. Your pranks have gone too far.” “Duvvelsheyss to you with my pranks.” The sylvan, as it turned out, also knew the dwarves’ tongue. “And your proposition is also worth as much as a duvvelsheyss. I’m not going anywhere unless you beat me at some game. Shall I give you a chance? We’ll play at riddles if you don’t like physical games. I’ll give you a riddle in a minute and if you guess it, you win and I leave. If you don’t, I stay and you leave. Rack your brains because the riddle isn’t easy.” Before Geralt could protest, the sylvan bleated, stamped his hooves, whipped the ground with his tail and recited: It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

Little pink leaves, pods small and full,

It grows in soft clay, not far from the stream,

On a long stalk, its flower is moist,

But to a cat, please show it not,

‘Cos if you do, he’ll eat the lot.

“Well, what is it? Guess.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” the witcher said, not even trying to think it over. “Sweet pea, perhaps?” “Wrong. You lose.”

“And what is the correct answer? What has…hmm…moist pods?” “Cabbage.”

“Listen,” growled Geralt. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

“I warned you,” chuckled the sylvan, “that the riddle wasn’t easy. Tough. I won, I stay. And you leave. I wish you, sir, a cold farewell.” “Just a moment.” The witcher surreptitiously slipped a hand into his pocket. “And my riddle? I have the right to a revenge match, haven’t I?” “No!” protested the devil. “I might not guess it, after all. Do you take me for a fool?” “No.” Geralt shook his head. “I take you for a spiteful, arrogant dope. We’re going to play quite a new game shortly, one which you don’t know.” “Ha! After all! What game?”

“The game is called,” said the witcher slowly, “don’t do unto others what you would not have them do to you.’ You don’t have to close your eyes.” Geralt stooped in a lightning throw; the one-inch iron ball whizzed sharply through the air and thwacked the sylvan straight between the horns. The creature collapsed onto his back as if hit by a thunderbolt. Geralt dived between the poles and grabbed him by one shaggy leg. The sylvan bleated and kicked. The witcher sheltered his head with his arm, but to little effect. The sylvan, despite his mean posture, kicked with the strength of an enraged mule. The witcher tried and failed to catch a kicking hoof. The sylvan flapped, thrashed his hands on the ground and kicked him again in the forehead. The witcher cursed, feeling the sylvan’s leg slip from his fingers. Both, having parted, rolled in opposite directions, kicked the poles with a crash and tangled themselves up in the creeping hemp.

The sylvan was the first to jump up, and, lowering his horned head, charged. But Geralt was already on his feet and effortlessly dodged the attack, grabbed the creature by a horn, tugged hard, threw him to the ground and crushed him with his knees. The sylvan bleated and spat straight into the witcher’s eyes like a camel suffering from excess saliva. The witcher instinctively stepped back without releasing the devil’s horns. The sylvan, trying to toss his head, kicked with both hooves at once and—strangely—hit the mark with both. Geralt swore nastily, but didn’t release his grip. He pulled the sylvan up, pinned him to the creaking poles and kicked him in a shaggy knee with all his might; then he leaned over and spat right into his ear. The sylvan howled and snapped his blunt teeth.

“Don’t do unto others…” panted the witcher, “…what you would not have them do to you. Shall we play on?” The sylvan gurgled, howled and spat fiercely, but Geralt held him firmly by the horns and pressed his head down hard, making the spittle hit the sylvan’s own hooves, which tore at the ground, sending up clouds of dust and weeds.

The next few minutes passed in an intense skirmish and exchange of insults and kicks. If Geralt was pleased about anything, it was only that nobody could see him—for it was a truly ridiculous sight.

The force of the next kick tore the combatants apart and threw them in opposite directions, into the hemp thicket. The sylvan got up before the witcher and rushed to escape, limpings heavily. Geralt, panting and wiping his brow, rushed in pursuit. They forced their way through the hemp and ran into the hops. The witcher heard the pounding of a galloping horse, the sound he’d been waiting for.

“Here, Dandilion! Here!” he yelled. “In the hops!”

He saw the mount breast right in front of him and was knocked over. He bounced off the horse as though it were a rock and tumbled onto his back. The world darkened. He managed to roll to the side, behind the hop poles, to avoid the hooves. He sprung up nimbly but another rider rode into him, knocking him down again. Then suddenly, someone threw themselves at him and pinned him to the ground.

Then there was a flash, and a piercing pain in the back of his head.

And darkness.

VI

There was sand on his lips. When he tried to spit it out, he realized he was lying facedown on the ground. And he was tied up. He raised his head, a little and heard voices.

He was lying on the forest floor, by a pine tree. Some twenty paces away stood unsaddled horses. They were obscured behind the feathery fronds of ferns, but one of those horses was, without a doubt, Dandilion’s chestnut.

“Three sacks of corn,” he heard. “Good, Torque. Very good. You’ve done well.” “That’s not all,” said the bleating voice, which could only be the sylvan devil. “Look at this, Galarr. It looks like beans but it’s completely white. And the size of it! And this, this is called oilseed. They make oil from it.” Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. No, it wasn’t a dream. The devil and Galarr, whoever he was, were using the Old Language, the language of elves. But the words corn, beans, and oilseed were in the common tongue.

“And this? What’s this?” asked Galarr.

“Flaxseed. Flax, you know? You make shirts from flax. It’s much cheaper than silk, and more hardwearing. It’s quite a complicated process as far as I know but I’ll find out the ins and outs.” “As long as it takes root, this flax of yours; as long as it doesn’t go to waste like the turnip,” grumbled Galarr, in the same strange Volapuk. “Try to get some new turnip seedlings, Torque.” “Have no fear,” bleated the sylvan. “There’s no problem with that here. Everything grows like hell. I’ll get you some, don’t worry.” “And one more thing,” said Galarr. “Finally find out what that three-field system of theirs is all about.” The witcher carefully raised his head and tried to turn around.

“Geralt…” He heard a whisper. “Are you awake?”

“Dandilion…” he whispered back. “Where are we…? What’s happening?”

Dandilion only grunted quietly. Geralt had had enough. He cursed, tensed himself and turned on to his side.

In the middle of the glade stood the sylvan devil with—as he now knew—the sweet name of Torque. He was busy loading sacks, bags and packs on to the horses. He was being helped by a slim, tall man who could only be Galarr. The latter, hearing the witcher move, turned around. His hair was black with a distinct hint of dark blue. He had sharp features, big, bright eyes and pointed ears.

Galarr was an elf. An elf from the mountains. A pure-blooded Aen Seidhe, a representative of the Old People.

Galarr wasn’t alone. Six more sat at the edge of the glade. One was busy emptying Dandilion’s packs; another strummed the troubadour’s lute. The remainder, gathered around an untied sack, were greedily devouring turnips and raw carrots.

“Vanadain, Toruviel,” said Galarr, indicating the prisoners with a nod of his head. “Vedrai! Enn’le!” Torque jumped up and bleated. “No, Galarr! No! Filavandrel has forbidden it! Have you forgotten?” “No, I haven’t forgotten.” Galarr threw two tied sacks across the horse’s back. “But we have to check if they haven’t loosened the knots.” “What do you want from us?” the troubadour moaned as one of the elves knocked him to the ground with his knee and checked the knots. “Why are you holding us prisoners? What do you want? I’m Dandilion, a poe—” Geralt heard the sound of a blow. He turned around, twisted his head.

The elf standing over Dandilion had black eyes and raven hair, which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. She was wearing a short leather camisole over a loose shirt of green satin, and tight woollen leggings tucked into riding boots. Her hips were wrapped around with a colored shawl which reached halfway down her thighs.

“Que glosse?” she asked, looking at the witcher and playing with the hilt of the long dagger in her belt. “Que l’en pavienn, ell’ea?” “Nell’ea,” he contested. “T’en pavienn, Aen Seidhe.”

“Did you hear?” The elf turned to her companion, the tall Seidhe who, not bothering to check Geralt’s knots, was strumming away at Dandilion’s lute with an expression of indifference on his long face. “Did you hear, Vanadain? The ape-man can talk! He can even be impertinent!” Seidhe shrugged, making the feathers decorating his jacket rustle. “All the more reason to gag him, Toruviel.” The elf leaned over Geralt. She had long lashes, an unnaturally pale complexion and parched, cracked lips. She wore a necklace of carved golden birch pieces on a thong, wrapped around her neck several times.

“Well, say something else, ape-man,” she hissed. “We’ll see what your throat, so used to barking, is capable of.” “What’s this? Do you need an excuse to hit a bound man?” The witcher turned over on his back with an effort and spat out the sand. “Hit me without any excuses. I’ve seen how you like it. Let off some steam.” The elf straightened. “I’ve already let off some steam on you, while your hands were free,” she said. “I rode you down and swiped you on the head. And I’ll also finish you off when the time comes.” He didn’t answer.

“I’d much rather stab you from close up, looking you in the eyes,” continued the elf. “But you stink most hideously, human, so I’ll shoot you.” “As you wish.” The witcher shrugged, as far as the knots let him. “Do as you like, noble Aen Seidhe. You shouldn’t miss a tied-up, motionless target.” The elf stood over him, legs spread, and leaned down, flashing her teeth.

“No, I shouldn’t,” she hissed. “I hit whatever I want. But you can be sure you won’t die from the first arrow. Or the second. I’ll try to make sure you can feel yourself dying.” “Don’t come so close.” He grimaced, pretending to be repulsed. “You stink most hideously, Aen Seidhe.” The elf jumped back, rocked on her narrow hips and forcefully kicked him in the thigh. Geralt drew his legs in and curled up, knowing where she was aiming next. He succeeded, and got her boot in the hip, so hard his teeth rattled.

The tall elf standing next to her echoed each kick with a sharp chord on the lute.

“Leave him, Toruviel!” bleated the sylvan. “Have you gone mad? Galarr, tell her to stop!” “Thaesse!” shrieked Toruviel, and kicked the witcher again. The tall Seidhe tore so violently at the strings that one snapped with a protracted whine.

“Enough of that! Enough, for gods’ sake!” Dandilion yelled fretfully, wriggling and tumbling in the ropes. “Why are you bullying him, you stupid whore? Leave us alone! And you leave my lute alone, all right?” Toruviel turned to him with an angry grimace on her cracked lips. “Musician!” she growled. “A human, yet a musician! A lutenist!” Without a word, she pulled the instrument from the tall elf’s hand, forcefully smashed the lute against the pine and threw the remains, tangled in the strings, on Dandilion’s chest.

“Play on a cow’s horn, you savage, not a lute.”

The poet turned as white as death; his lips quivered. Geralt, feeling cold fury rising up somewhere within him, drew Toruviel’s eyes with his own.

“What are you staring at?” hissed the elf, leaning over. “Filthy ape-man! Do you want me to gouge out those insect eyes of yours?” Her necklace hung down just above him. The witcher tensed, lunged, and caught the necklace in his teeth, tugging powerfully, curling his legs in and turning on his side.

Toruviel lost her balance and fell on top of him.

Geralt wriggled in the ropes like a fish, crushed the elf beneath him, tossed his head back with such force that the vertebrae in his neck cracked and, with all his might, butted her in the face with his forehead. Toruviel howled and struggled.

They pulled him off her brutally and, tugging at his clothes and hair, lifted him. One of them struck him; he felt rings cut the skin over his cheekbone and the forest danced and swam in front of his eyes. He saw Toruviel lurch to her knees, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. The elf wrenched the dagger from its sheath but gave a sob, hunched over, grasped her face and dropped her head between her knees.

The tall elf in the jacket adorned with colorful feathers took the dagger from her hand and approached the witcher. He smiled as he raised the blade. Geralt saw him through a red haze; blood from his forehead, which he’d cut against Toruviel’s teeth, poured into his eye sockets.

“No!” bleated Torque, running up to the elf and hanging on to his arm. “Don’t kill him! No!” “Voe’rle, Vanadain,” a sonorous voice suddenly commanded. “Quess aen? Caelm, evellienn! Galarr!” Geralt turned his head as far as the fist clutching his hair permitted.

The horse which had just reached the glade was as white as snow, its mane long, soft and silky as a woman’s hair. The hair of the rider sitting in the sumptuous saddle was identical in color, pulled back at the forehead by a bandana studded with sapphires.

Torque, bleating now and then, ran up to the horse, caught hold of the stirrup and showered the white-haired elf with a torrent of words. The Seidhe interrupted him with an authoritative gesture and jumped down from his saddle. He approached Toruviel, who was being supported by two elves, and carefully removed the bloodied handkerchief from her face. Toruviel gave a heartrending groan. The Seidhe shook his head and approached the witcher. His burning black eyes, shining like stars in his pale face, had dark rings beneath them, as if he had not slept for several nights in a row.

“You stink even when bound,” he said quietly in unaccented common tongue. “Like a basilisk. I’ll draw my conclusions from that.” “Toruviel started it,” bleated the devil. “She kicked him when he was tied up, as if she’d lost her mind—” With a gesture, the elf ordered him to be quiet. At his command, the other Seidhe dragged the witcher and Dandilion under the pine tree and fastened them to the trunk with belts. Then they all knelt by the prostrate Toruviel, sheltering her. After a moment Geralt heard her yell and fight in their arms.

“I didn’t want this,” said the sylvan, still standing next to them. “I didn’t, human. I didn’t know they’d arrive just when we—When they stunned you and tied your companion up, I asked them to leave you there, in the hops. But—” “They couldn’t leave any witnesses,” muttered the witcher.

“Surely they won’t kill us, will they?” groaned Dandilion. “Surely they won’t…” Torque said nothing, wiggling his soft nose.

“Bloody hell.” The poet groaned. “They’re going to kill us? What’s all this about, Geralt? What did we witness?” “Our sylvan friend is on a special mission in the Valley of Flowers. Am I right, Torque? At the elves’ request he’s stealing seeds, seedlings, knowledge about farming…What else, devil?” “Whatever I can,” bleated Torque. “Everything they need. And show me something they don’t need. They’re starving in the mountains, especially in winter. And they know nothing about farming. And before they’ve learned to domesticate game or poultry, and to cultivate what they can in their plots of land…They haven’t got the time, human.” “I don’t care a shit about their time. What have I done to them?” groaned Dandilion. “What wrong have I done them?” “Think carefully,” said the white-haired elf, approaching without a sound, “and maybe you can answer the question yourself.” “He’s simply taking revenge for all the wrong that man has done the elves.” The witcher smiled wryly. “It’s all the same to him who he takes his revenge on. Don’t be deluded by his noble bearing and elaborate speech, Dandilion. He’s no different than the black-eyes who knocked us down. He has to unload his powerless hatred on somebody.” The elf picked up Dandilion’s shattered lute. For a moment, he looked at the ruined instrument in silence, and finally threw it into the bushes.

“If I wanted to give vent to hatred or a desire for revenge,” he said, playing with a pair of soft white leather gloves, “I’d storm the valley at night, burn down the village and kill the villagers. Childishly simple. They don’t even put out a guard. They don’t see or hear us when they come to the forest. Can there be anything simpler, anything easier, than a swift, silent arrow from behind a tree? But we’re not hunting you. It is you, man with strange eyes, who is hunting our friend, the sylvan Torque.” “Eeeeee, that’s exaggerating,” bleated the devil. “What hunt? We were having a bit of fun—” “It is you humans who hate anything that differs from you, be it only by the shape of its ears,” the elf went on calmly, paying no attention to the sylvan. “That’s why you took our land from us, drove us from our homes, forced us into the savage mountains. You took our Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers. I am Filavandrel aen Fidhail of Silver Towers, of the Feleaorn family from White Ships. Now, exiled and hounded to the edge of the world, I am Filavandrel of the Edge of the World.” “The world is huge,” muttered the witcher. “We can find room. There’s enough space.” “The world is huge,” repeated the elf. “That’s true, human. But you have changed this world. At first, you used force to change it. You treated it as you treat anything that falls into your hands. Now it looks as if the world has started to fit in with you. It’s given way to you. It’s given in.” Geralt didn’t reply.

“Torque spoke the truth,” continued Filavandrel. “Yes, we are starving. Yes, we are threatened with annihilation. The sun shines differently, the air is different, water is not as it used to be. The things we used to eat, made use of, are dying, diminishing, deteriorating. We never cultivated the land. Unlike you humans, we never tore at it with hoes and ploughs. To you, the earth pays a bloody tribute. It bestowed gifts on us. You tear the earth’s treasures from it by force. For us, the earth gave birth and blossomed because it loved us. Well, no love lasts forever. But we still want to survive.” “Instead of stealing grain, you can buy it. As much as you need. You still have a great many things that humans consider valuable. You can trade.” Filavandrel smiled contemptuously. “With you? Never.”

Geralt frowned, breaking up the dried blood on his cheek. “The devil with you, then, and your arrogance and contempt. By refusing to cohabit, you’re condemning yourselves to annihilation. To cohabit, to come to an understanding, that’s your only chance.” Filavandrel leaned forward, his eyes blazing.

“Cohabit on your terms?” he asked in a changed, yet still calm, voice. “Acknowledging your sovereignty? Losing our identity? Cohabit as what? Slaves? Pariahs? Cohabit with you from beyond the walls you’ve built to fence yourselves away in towns? Cohabit with your women and hang for it? Or look on at what half-blood children must live with? Why are you avoiding my eyes, strange human? How do you find cohabiting with neighbors from whom, after all, you do differ somewhat?” “I manage.” The witcher looked him straight in the eyes. “I manage because I have to. Because I’ve no other way out. Because I’ve overcome the vanity and pride of being different. I’ve understood that they are a pitiful defense against being different. Because I’ve understood that the sun shines differently when something changes, but I’m not the axis of those changes. The sun shines differently, but it will continue to shine, and jumping at it with a hoe isn’t going to do anything. We’ve got to accept facts, elf. That’s what we’ve got to learn.” “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” With his wrist, Filavandrel wiped away the sweat above his white brows. “Is that what you want to impose on others? The conviction that your time has come, your human era and age, and that what you’re doing to other races is as natural as the rising and the setting of the sun? That everybody has to come to terms with it, to accept it? And you accuse me of vanity? And what are the views you’re proclaiming? Why don’t you humans finally realize that your domination of the world is as natural and repellant as lice multiplying in a sheepskin coat? You could propose we cohabit with lice and get the same reaction—and I’d listen to the lice as attentively if they, in return for our acknowledgment of their supremacy, were to agree to allow common use of the coat.” “So don’t waste time discussing it with such an unpleasant insect, elf,” said the witcher, barely able to control his voice. “I’m surprised you want to arouse a feeling of guilt and repentance in such a louse as me. You’re pitiful, Filavandrel. You’re embittered, hungry for revenge and conscious of your own powerlessness. Go on, thrust the sword into me. Revenge yourself on the whole human race. You’ll see what relief that’ll bring you. First kick me in the balls or the teeth, like Toruviel.” Filavandrel turned his head.

“Toruviel is sick,” he said.

“I know that disease and its symptoms.” Geralt spat over his shoulder. “The treatment I gave her ought to help.” “This conversation is senseless.” Filavandrel stepped away. “I’m sorry we’ve got to kill you. Revenge has nothing to do with it; it’s purely practical. Torque has to carry on with his task and no one can suspect who he’s doing it for. We can’t afford to go to war with you, and we won’t be taken in by trade and exchange. We’re not so naive that we don’t know your merchants are just outposts of your way of life. We know what follows them. And what sort of cohabitation they bring.” “Elf,” Dandilion, who had remained silent until now, said quietly, “I’ve got friends. People who’ll pay ransom for us. In the form of provisions, if you like, or any form. Think about it. After all, those stolen seeds aren’t going to save you—” “Nothing will save them anymore,” Geralt interrupted him. “Don’t grovel, Dandilion, don’t beg him. It’s pointless and pitiful.” “For someone who has lived such a short time”—Filavandrel forced a smile—“you show an astounding disdain for death, human.” “Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,” the witcher said calmly. “An appropriate philosophy for a louse, don’t you agree? And your longevity? I pity you, Filavandrel.” The elf raised his eyebrows.

“Why?”

“You’re pathetic, with your little stolen sacks of seeds on pack horses, with your handful of grain, that tiny crumb thanks to which you plan to survive. And with that mission of yours which is supposed to turn your thoughts from imminent annihilation. Because you know this is the end. Nothing will sprout or yield crops on the plateau; nothing will save you now. But you live long, and you will live very long in arrogant isolation, fewer and fewer of you, growing weaker and weaker, more and more bitter. And you know what’ll happen then, Filavandrel. You know that desperate young men with the eyes of hundred-year-old men and withered, barren and sick girls like Toruviel will lead those who can still hold a sword and bow in their hands, down into the valleys. You’ll come down into the blossoming valleys to meet death, wanting to die honorably, in battle, and not in sickbeds of misery, where anemia, tuberculosis and scurvy will send you. Then, long-living Aen Seidhe, you’ll remember me. You’ll remember that I pitied you. And you’ll understand that I was right.” “Time will tell who was right,” said the elf quietly. “And herein lies the advantage of longevity. I’ve got a chance of finding out, if only because of that stolen handful of grain. You won’t have a chance like that. You’ll die shortly.” “Spare him, at least.” Geralt indicated Dandilion with his head. “No, not out of lofty mercy. Out of common sense. Nobody’s going to ask after me, but they are going to take revenge for him.” “You judge my common sense poorly,” the elf said after some hesitation. “If he survives thanks to you, he’ll undoubtedly feel obliged to avenge you.” “You can be sure of that!” Dandilion burst out, pale as death. “You can be sure, you son of a bitch. Kill me too, because I promise otherwise I’ll set the world against you. You’ll see what lice from a fur coat can do! We’ll finish you off even if we have to level those mountains of yours to the ground! You can be sure of that!” “How stupid you are, Dandilion,” sighed the witcher.

“Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,” said the poet haughtily, the effect somewhat spoiled by his teeth rattling like castanets.

“That settles it.” Filavandrel took his gloves from his belt and pulled them on. “It’s time to end this.” At his command, the elves positioned themselves opposite Geralt and Dandilion with bows. They did it quickly; they’d obviously been waiting for this a long time. One of them, the witcher noticed, was still chewing a turnip. Toruviel, her mouth and nose bandaged with cloth and birch bark, stood next to the archers. Without a bow.

“Shall I bind your eyes?” asked Filavandrel.

“Go away.” The witcher turned his head. “Go—”

“A d’yeable aep arse,” Dandilion finished for him, his teeth chattering.

“Oh, no!” the sylvan suddenly bleated, running up and sheltering the condemned men with his body. “Have you lost your mind? Filavandrel! This is not what we agreed! Not this! You were supposed to take them up to the mountains, hold them somewhere in some cave, until we’d finished—” “Torque,” said the elf, “I can’t. I can’t risk it. Did you see what he did to Toruviel while tied up? I can’t risk it.” “I don’t care what you can or can’t! What do you imagine? You think I’ll let you murder them? Here, on my land? Right next to my hamlet? You accursed idiots! Get out of here with your bows or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!” “Torque.” Filavandrel rested his hands on his belt. “This is necessary.”

“Duvvelsheyss, not necessary!”

“Move aside, Torque.”

The sylvan shook his ears, bleated even louder, stared and bent his elbow in an abusive gesture popular among dwarves.

“You’re not going to murder anybody here! Get on your horses and out into the mountains, beyond the passes! Otherwise you’ll have to kill me too!” “Be reasonable,” said the white-haired elf slowly. “If we let them live, people are going to learn what you’re doing. They’ll catch you and torture you. You know what they’re like, after all.” “I do,” bleated the sylvan still sheltering Geralt and Dandilion. “It turns out I know them better than I know you! And, verily, I don’t know who to side with. I regret allying myself with you, Filavandrel!” “You wanted to,” said the elf coldly, giving a signal to the archers. “You wanted to, Torque. L’sparellean! Evellienn!” The elves drew arrows from their quivers. “Go away, Torque,” said Geralt, gritting his teeth. “It’s senseless. Get aside.” The sylvan, without budging from the spot, showed him the dwarves’ gesture.

“I can hear…music…” Dandilion suddenly sobbed.

“It happens,” said the witcher, looking at the arrowheads. “Don’t worry. There’s no shame in fear.” Filavandrel’s face changed, screwed up in a strange grimace. The white-haired Seidhe suddenly turned round and gave a shout to the archers. They lowered their weapons.

Lille entered the glade.

She was no longer a skinny peasant girl in a sackcloth dress. Through the grasses covering the glade walked—no, not walked—floated a queen, radiant, golden-haired, fiery-eyed, ravishing. The Queen of the Fields, decorated with garlands of flowers, ears of corn, bunches of herbs.

At her left-hand side, a young stag pattered on stiff legs, at her right rustled an enormous hedgehog.

“Dana Meadbh,” said Filavandrel with veneration. And then bowed and knelt.

The remaining elves also knelt; slowly, reluctantly, they fell to their knees one after the other and bowed their heads low in veneration. Toruviel was the last to kneel.

“Hael, Dana Meadbh,” repeated Filavandrel.

Lille didn’t answer. She stopped several paces short of the elf and swept her blue eyes over Dandilion and Geralt. Torque, while bowing, started cutting through the knots. None of the Seidhe moved.

Lille stood in front of Filavandrel. She didn’t say anything, didn’t make the slightest sound, but the witcher saw the changes on the elf’s face, sensed the aura surrounding them and was in no doubt they were communicating. The devil suddenly pulled at his sleeve.

“Your friend,” he bleated quietly, “has decided to faint. Right on time. What shall we do?” “Slap him across the face a couple of times.”

“With pleasure.”

Filavandrel got up from his knees. At his command, the elves fell to saddling the horses as quick as lightning.

“Come with us, Dana Meadbh,” said the white-haired elf. “We need you. Don’t abandon us, Eternal One. Don’t deprive us of your love. We’ll die without it.” Lille slowly shook her head and indicated east, the direction of the mountains. The elf bowed, crumpling the ornate reins of his white-maned mount in his hands.

Dandilion walked up, pale and dumbfounded, supported by the sylvan. Lille looked at him and smiled. She looked into the witcher’s eyes. She looked long. She didn’t say a word. Words weren’t necessary.

Most of the elves were already in their saddles when Filavandrel and Toruviel approached. Geralt looked into the elf’s black eyes, visible above the bandages.

“Toruviel…” he said. And didn’t finish.

The elf nodded. From her saddlebow, she took a lute, a marvelous instrument of light, tastefully inlaid wood with a slender, engraved neck. Without a word, she handed the lute to Dandilion. The poet accepted the instrument and smiled. Also without a word, but his eyes said a great deal.

“Farewell, strange human,” Filavandrel said quietly to Geralt. “You’re right. Words aren’t necessary. They won’t change anything.” Geralt remained silent.

“After some consideration,” added the Seidhe, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you were right. When you pitied us. So goodbye. Goodbye until we meet again, on the day when we descend into the valleys to die honorably. We’ll look out for you then, Toruviel and I. Don’t let us down.” For a long time, they looked at each other in silence. And then the witcher answered briefly and simply: “I’ll try.”

VII

“By the gods, Geralt.” Dandilion stopped playing, hugged the lute and touched it with his cheek. “This wood sings on its own! These strings are alive! What wonderful tonality! Bloody hell, a couple of kicks and a bit of fear is a pretty low price to pay for such a superb lute. I’d have let myself be kicked from dawn to dusk if I’d known what I was going to get. Geralt? Are you listening to me at all?” “It’s difficult not to hear you two.” Geralt raised his head from the book and glanced at the sylvan, who was still stubbornly squeaking on a peculiar set of pipes made from reeds of various lengths. “I hear you; the whole neighborhood hears you.” “Duvvelsheyss, not neighborhood.” Torque put his pipes aside. “A desert, that’s what it is. A wilderness. A shit-hole. Eh, I miss my hemp!” “He misses his hemp,” laughed Dandilion, carefully turning the delicately engraved lute pegs. “You should have sat in the thicket quiet as a dormouse instead of scaring girls, destroying dykes and sullying the well. I think you’re going to be more careful now and give up your tricks, eh, Torque?” “I like tricks,” declared the sylvan, baring his teeth. “And I can’t imagine life without them. But have it your way. I promise to be more careful on new territory. I’ll be more restrained.” The night was cloudy and windy. The gale beat down the reeds and rustled in the branches of the bushes surrounding their camp. Dandilion threw some dry twigs into the fire. Torque wriggled around on his makeshift bed, swiping mosquitoes away with his tail. A fish leapt in the lake with a splash.

“I’ll describe our whole expedition to the edge of the world in a ballad,” declared Dandilion. “And I’ll describe you in it, too, Torque.” “Don’t think you’ll get away with it,” growled the sylvan. “I’ll write a ballad too, then, and describe you, but in such a way as you won’t be able to show your face in decent company for twelve years. So watch out!

Geralt?”

“What?”

“Have you read anything interesting in that book which you so disgracefully wheedled out of those freemen?” “I have.”

“So read it to us, before the fire burns out.”

“Yes, yes”—Dandilion strummed the melodious strings of Toruviel’s lute—“read us something, Geralt.” The witcher leaned on his elbow, edging the volume closer to the fire.

“’Glimpsed she may be,’” he began, “’during the time of sumor, from the days of Mai and Juyn to the days of October, but most oft this haps on the Feste of the Scythe, which ancients would call Lammas. She revealeth herself as the Fairhaired Ladie, in flowers all, and all that liveth followeth her path and clingeth to her, as one, plant or beast. Hence her name is Lyfia. Ancients call her Danamebi and venerate her greatly. Even the Bearded, albeit in mountains not on fields they dwell, respect and call her Bloemenmagde.’” “Danamebi,” muttered Dandilion. “Dana Meadbh, the Lady of the Fields.”

“’Whence Lyfia treads the earth blossometh and bringeth forth, and abundantly doth each creature breed, such is her might. All nations to her offer sacrifice of harvest in vain hope their field not another’s will by Lyfia visited be. Because it is also said that there cometh a day at end when Lyfia will come to settle among that tribe which above all others will rise, but these be mere womenfolk tales. Because, forsooth, the wise do say that Lyfia loveth but One land and that which groweth on it and liveth alike, with no difference, be it the smallest of common apple trees or the most wretched of insects, and all nations are no more to her than that thinnest of trees because, forsooth, they too will be gone and new, different tribes will follow. But Lyfia eternal is, was and ever shall be until the end of time.’” “Until the end of time!” sang the troubadour and strummed his lute. Torque joined in with a high trill on his reed pipes. “Hail, Lady of the Fields! For the harvest, for the flowers in Dol Blathanna, but also for the hide of the undersigned, which you saved from being riddled with arrows. Do you know what? I’m going to tell you something.” He stopped playing, hugged the lute like a child and grew sad. “I don’t think I’ll mention the elves and the difficulties they’ve got to struggle with, in the ballad. There’d be no shortage of scum wanting to go into the mountains…Why hasten the—” The troubadour grew silent.

“Go on, finish,” said Torque bitterly. “You wanted to say: hasten what can’t be avoided. The inevitable.” “Let’s not talk about it,” interrupted Geralt. “Why talk about it? Words aren’t necessary. Follow Lille’s example.” “She spoke to the elf telepathically,” muttered the bard. “I sensed it. I’m right, aren’t I, Geralt? After all, you can sense communication like that. Did you understand what…what she was getting across to the elf?” “Some of it.”

“What was she talking about?”

“Hope. That things renew themselves, and won’t stop doing so.”

“Is that all?”

“That was enough.”

“Hmm…Geralt? Lille lives in the village, among people Do you think that—”

“—that she’ll stay with them? Here, in Dol Blathanna? Maybe. If…” “If what?”

“If people prove worthy of it. If the edge of the world remains the edge of the world. If we respect the boundaries. But enough of this talk, boys. Time to sleep.” “True. It’s nearly midnight; the fire’s burning out. I’ll sit up for a little while yet. I’ve always found it easiest to invent rhymes beside a dying fire. And I need a title for my ballad. A nice title.” “Maybe The Edge of the World?”

“Banal,” snorted the poet. “Even if it really is the edge, it’s got to be described differently. Metaphorically. I take it you know what a metaphor is, Geralt? Hmm…Let me think…’Where…’ Bloody hell. ‘Where—’” “Goodnight,” said the devil.