The Last Wish Part 1

THE LAST WISH

I

The catfish stuck its barbelled head above the surface, tugged with force, splashed, stirred the water and flashed its white belly.

“Careful, Dandilion!” shouted the witcher, digging his heels into the wet sand. “Hold him, damn it!” “I am holding him…” groaned the poet. “Heavens, what a monster! It’s a leviathan, not a fish! There’ll be some good eating on that, dear gods!” “Loosen it. Loosen it or the line will snap!”

The catfish clung to the bed and threw itself against the current toward the bend in the river. The line hissed as Dandilion’s and Geralt’s gloves smoldered.

“Pull, Geralt, pull! Don’t loosen it or it’ll get tangled up in the roots!” “The line will snap!”

“No, it won’t. Pull!”

They hunched up and pulled. The line cut the water with a hiss, vibrated and scattered droplets which glistened like mercury in the rising sun. The catfish suddenly surfaced, set the water seething just below the surface, and the tension of the line eased. They quickly started to gather up the slack.

“We’ll smoke it,” panted Dandilion. “We’ll take it to the village and get it smoked. And we’ll use the head for soup!” “Careful!”

Feeling the shallows under its belly, the catfish threw half of its twelve-foot-long body out of the water, tossed its head, whacked its flat tail and took a sharp dive into the depths. Their gloves smoldered anew.

“Pull, pull! To the bank, the son of a bitch!”

“The line is creaking! Loosen it, Dandilion!”

“It’ll hold, don’t worry! We’ll cook the head…for soup…”

The catfish, dragged near to the bank again, surged and strained furiously against them as if to let them know he wasn’t that easy to get into the pot. The spray flew six feet into the air.

“We’ll sell the skin…” Dandilion, red with effort, pulled the line with both hands. “And the barbels…We’ll use the barbels to make—” Nobody ever found out what the poet was going to make from the catfish’s barbels. The line snapped with a crack and both fishermen, losing their balance, fell onto the wet sand.

“Bloody hell!” Dandilion yelled so loud that the echo resounded though the osiers. “So much grub escaped! I hope you die, you son-of-a-catfish.” “I told you.” Geralt shook his wet trousers. “I told you not to use force when you pull. You screwed up, my friend. You make as good a fisherman as a goat’s arse makes a trumpet.” “That’s not true.” The troubadour was outraged. “It’s my doing that the monster took the bait in the first place.” “Oh really? You didn’t lift a finger to help me set the line. You played the lute and hollered so the whole neighborhood could hear you, nothing more.” “You’re wrong.” Dandilion bared his teeth. “When you fell asleep, you see, I took the grubs off the hook and attached a dead crow, which I’d found in the bushes. I wanted to see your face in the morning when you pulled the crow out. And the catfish took the crow. Your grubs would have caught shit-all.” “They would have, they would have.” The witcher spat into the water, winding the line on to a little wooden rake. “But it snapped because you tugged like an idiot. Wind up the rest of the lines instead of gabbling. The sun’s already up; it’s time to go. I’m going to pack up.” “Geralt!”

“What?”

“There’s something on the other line, too…No, dammit, it only got caught. Hell, it’s holding like a stone. I can’t do it! Ah, that’s it…Ha, ha, look what I’m bringing in. It must be the wreck of a barge from King Dezmod’s time! What great stuff! Look, Geralt!” Dandilion was clearly exaggerating; the clump of rotted ropes, net and algae pulled out of the water was impressive but it was far from being the size of a barge dating from the days of the legendary king. The bard scattered the jumble over the bank and began to dig around in it with the tip of his shoe. The algae was alive with leeches, scuds and little crabs.

“Ha! Look what I’ve found!”

Geralt approached, curious. The find was a chipped stoneware jar, something like a two-handled amphora, tangled up in netting, black with rotten algae, colonies of caddis-larvae and snails, dripping with stinking slime.

“Ha!” Dandilion exclaimed again, proudly. “Do you know what this is?” “It’s an old pot.”

“You’re wrong,” declared the troubadour, scraping away shells and hardened, shiny clay. “This is a charmed jar. There’s a djinn inside who’ll fulfill my three wishes.” The witcher snorted.

“You can laugh.” Dandilion finished his scraping, bent over and rinsed the amphora. “But there’s a seal on the spigot and a wizard’s mark on the seal.” “What mark? Let’s see.”

“Oh, sure.” The poet hid the jar behind his back. “And what more do you want? I’m the one who found it and I need all the wishes.” “Don’t touch that seal! Leave it alone!”

“Let go, I tell you! It’s mine!”

“Dandilion, be careful!”

“Sure!”

“Don’t touch it! Oh, bloody hell!”

The jar fell to the sand during their scuffle, and luminous red smoke burst forth.

The witcher jumped back and rushed toward the camp for his sword. Dandilion, folding his arms across his chest, didn’t move.

The smoke pulsated and collected in an irregular sphere level with Dandilion’s eyes. The sphere formed a six-foot-wide distorted head with no nose, enormous eyes and a sort of beak.

“Djinn!” said Dandilion, stamping his foot. “I freed thee and as of this day, I am thy lord. My wishes—” The head snapped its beak, which wasn’t really a beak but something in the shape of drooping, deformed and ever-changing lips.

“Run!” yelled the witcher. “Run, Dandilion!”

“My wishes,” continued the poet, “are as follows. Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, die of apoplexy as soon as possible. Secondly, there’s a count’s daughter in Caelf called Virginia who refuses all advances. May she succumb to mine. Thirdly—” No one ever found out Dandilion’s third wish.

Two monstrous paws emerged from the horrible head and grabbed the bard by the throat. Dandilion screeched.

Geralt reached the head in three leaps, swiped his silver sword and slashed it through the middle. The air howled, the head exhaled smoke and rapidly doubled in diameter. The monstrous jaw, now also much larger, flew open, snapped and whistled; the paws pulled the struggling Dandilion around and crushed him to the ground.

The witcher crossed his fingers in the Sign of Aard and threw as much energy as he could muster at the head. The energy materialized in a blinding beam, sliced through the glow surrounding the head and hit its mark. The boom was so loud that it stabbed Geralt’s ears, and the air sucked in by the implosion made the willows rustle. The roar of the monster was deafening as it grew even larger, but it released the poet, soared up, circled and, waving its paws, flew away over the water.

The witcher rushed to pull Dandilion—who was lying motionless—away. At that moment, his fingers touched a round object buried in the sand.

It was a brass seal decorated with the sign of a broken cross and a nine-pointed star.

The head, suspended above the river, had become the size of a haystack, while the open, roaring jaws looked like the gates of an average-sized barn. Stretching out its paws, the monster attacked.

Geralt, not having the least idea of what to do, squeezed the seal in his fist and, extending his hand toward the assailant, screamed out the words of an exorcism a priestess had once taught him. He had never used those words until now because, in principle, he didn’t believe in superstitions.

The effect surpassed his expectations.

The seal hissed and grew hot, burning his hand. The gigantic head froze in the air, suspended, motionless above the river. It hung like that for a moment then, at last, it began to howl, roar, and dispersed into a pulsating bundle of smoke, into a huge, whirling cloud. The cloud whined shrilly and whisked upstream with incredible speed, leaving a trail of churned-up water on the surface. In a matter of seconds, it had disappeared into the distance; only a dwindling howl lingered across the water.

The witcher rushed to the poet, cowering on the sand.

“Dandilion? Are you dead? Dandilion, damn it! What’s the matter with you?” The poet jerked his head, shook his hands and opened his mouth to scream. Geralt grimaced and narrowed his eyes—Dandilion had a trained—loud—tenor voice and, when frightened, could reach extraordinary registers. But what emerged from the bard’s throat was a barely audible, hoarse croak.

“Dandilion! What’s the matter with you? Answer me!”

“Hhhh…eeee…kheeeee…theeee whhhhorrrrrrre…”

“Are you in pain? What’s the matter? Dandilion!”

“Hhhh…Whhhooo…”

“Don’t say anything. If everything’s all right, nod.”

Dandilion grimaced and, with great difficulty, nodded and then immediately turned on his side, curled up and—choking and coughing—vomited blood.

Geralt cursed.

II

“By all the gods!” The guard stepped back and lowered the lantern. “What’s the matter with him?” “Let us through, my good man,” said the witcher quietly, supporting Dandilion, who was huddled up in the saddle. “We’re in great haste, as you see.” “I do.” The guard swallowed, looking at the poet’s pale face and chin covered in black, dried blood. “Wounded? It looks terrible, sir.” “I’m in haste,” repeated Geralt. “We’ve been traveling since dawn. Let us through, please.” “We can’t,” said the other guard. “You’re only allowed through between sunrise and sunset. None may pass at night. That’s the order. There’s no way through for anyone unless they’ve got a letter of safe-conduct from the king or the mayor. Or they’re nobility with a coat of arms.” Dandilion croaked, huddled up even more, resting his forehead on the horse’s mane, shuddered, shook and retched dryly. Another stream of blood trickled down the branched, dried pattern on his mount’s neck.

“My good men,” Geralt said as calmly as he could, “you can see for yourselves how badly he fares. I have to find someone who can treat him. Let us through. Please.” “Don’t ask.” The guard leaned on his halberd. “Orders are orders. I’ll go to the pillory if I let you through. They’ll chase me from service, and then how will I feed my children? No, sir, I can’t. Take your friend down from the horse and put him in the room in the barbican. We’ll dress him and he’ll last out until dawn, if that’s his fate. It’s not long now.” “A dressing’s not enough.” The witcher ground his teeth. “We need a healer, a priest, a gifted doctor—” “You wouldn’t be waking up anyone like that at night anyway,” said the second guard. “The most we can do is see that you don’t have to camp out under the gate until dawn. It’s warm in there and there’s somewhere to put your friend; he’ll fare better there than in the saddle. Come on, let us help you lower him from the horse.” It was warm, stuffy and cozy in the room within the barbican. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely.

Three men sat at the heavy square table laid with jugs and plates.

“Forgive us for disturbing you, squires…” said the guard, holding Dandilion up. “I trust you won’t mind…This one here is a knight, hmm…And the other one is wounded, so I thought—” “You thought well.” One of the men turned his slender, sharp, expressive face toward them and got up. “Here lay him down on the pallet.” The man was an elf, like the other one sitting at the table. Both, judging by their clothes, which were a typical mixture of human and elven fashion, were elves who had settled and integrated. The third man, who looked the eldest, was human, a knight, judging by the way he was dressed and by his salt-and-pepper hair, cut to fit beneath a helmet.

“I’m Chireadan,” the taller of the elves, with an expressive face, introduced himself. As was usual with representatives of the Old People, it was difficult to guess his age; he could have been twenty or one hundred and twenty. “This is my cousin Errdil. And this nobleman is the knight Vratimir.” “A nobleman,” muttered Geralt, but a closer look at the coat of arms embroidered on his tunic shattered his hopes: a shield divided per cross and bearing golden lilies was cut diagonally by a silver bar. Vratimir was not only illegitimate but came from a mixed, human-nonhuman union. As a result, although he was entitled to use a coat of arms, he couldn’t consider himself a true nobleman, and the privilege of crossing the city gate after dusk most certainly wasn’t extended to him.

“Unfortunately”—the witcher’s scrutiny did not escape the elf’s attention—“we, too, have to remain here until dawn. The law knows no exceptions, at least not for the likes of us. We invite you to join our company, sir knight.” “Geralt, of Rivia” the witcher introduced himself. “A witcher, not a knight.” “What’s the matter with him?” Chireadan indicated Dandilion, whom the guards had laid on a pallet in the meantime. “It looks like poisoning. If it is poisoning, then I can help. I’ve got some good medicine with me.” Geralt sat down, then quickly gave a guarded account of events at the river. The elves looked at each other, and the knight spat through his teeth and frowned.

“Extraordinary,” Chireadan remarked. “What could it have been?”

“A djinn in a bottle,” muttered Vratimir. “Like a fairy tale—”

“Not quite.” Geralt indicated Dandilion, curled up on the pallet. “I don’t know of any fairy tale that ends like this.” “That poor fellow’s injuries,” said Chireadan, “are evidently of a magical nature. I fear that my medicine will not be of much use. But I can at least lessen his suffering. Have you already given him a remedy, Geralt?” “A painkilling elixir.”

“Come and help me. You can hold his head up.”

Dandilion greedily drank the medicine, diluted with wine, choked on his last sip, wheezed and covered the leather pillow with spittle.

“I know him,” Errdil said. “He’s Dandilion, the troubadour and poet. I saw him singing at the court of King Ethain in Cidaris once.” “A troubadour,” repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. “That’s bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell’s action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise…This might be irreversible.” “That means…Does that mean he won’t be able to talk?”

“Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.”

Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched fists.

“A wizard,” said Vratimir. “A magical remedy or a curative spell is needed. You have to take him to some other town, witcher.” “What?” Geralt raised his head. “And here, in Rinde? Isn’t there a wizard here?” “Magicians are hard to come by in the whole of Redania,” said the knight. “Isn’t that true? Ever since King Heribert placed an exorbitant tax on spells, magicians have boycotted the capital and those towns which are rigorous in executing the king’s edicts. And the councilors of Rinde are famous for their zeal in this respect. Chireadan, Errdil, am I right?” “You are,” confirmed Errdil. “But…Chireadan, may I?”

“You have to,” said Chireadan, looking at the witcher. “There’s no point in making a secret of it; everyone knows anyway. There’s a sorceress staying in the town right now, Geralt.” “Incognito, no doubt?”

“Not very.” The elf smiled. “The sorceress in question is something of an individualist. She’s ignoring both the boycott imposed on Rinde by the Council of Wizards, and the disposition of the local councilors, and is doing rather splendidly out of it: the boycott means there’s tremendous demand for magical services here and, of course, the sorceress isn’t paying any levies.” “And the town council puts up with it?”

“The sorceress is staying with a merchant, a trade broker from Novigrad, who is also the honorary ambassador. Nobody can touch her there. She has asylum.” “It’s more like house arrest than asylum,” corrected Errdil. “She’s just about imprisoned there. But she has no shortage of clients. Rich clients. She ostentatiously makes light of the councilors, holds balls and extravagant parties—” “While the councilors are furious, turn whoever they can against her and tarnish her reputation as best they can,” Chireadan cut in. “They spread foul rumors about her and hope, no doubt, that the Novigrad hierarchy will forbid the merchant to grant her asylum.” “I don’t like meddling in things like that,” muttered Geralt, “but I’ve got no choice. What’s the merchant-ambassador’s name?” “Beau Berrant.”

The witcher thought that Chireadan grimaced as he pronounced the name.

“Oh well, it really is your only hope. Or rather, the only hope for that poor fellow moaning on the bed. But whether the sorceress will want to help you…I don’t know.” “Be careful when you go there,” said Errdil. “The mayor’s spies are watching the house. You know what to do if they stop you. Money opens all doors.” “I’ll go as soon as they open the gates. What’s the sorceress called?” Geralt thought he detected a slight flush on Chireadan’s expressive face. But it could have been the glow from the fire in the hearth.

“Yennefer of Vergerberg.”

III

“My lord’s asleep,” repeated the doorman, looking down at Geralt. He was taller by a head and nearly twice as broad in the shoulders. “Are you deaf, you vagabond? The lord’s asleep, I said.” “Then let him sleep,” agreed the witcher. “I’ve not got business with your lord but with the lady who is staying here.” “Business, you say.” The doorman, as it turned out, was surprisingly witty for someone of such stature and appearance. “Then go, you loiterer, to the whorehouse to satisfy your need. Scram.” Geralt unfastened the purse on his belt and, holding it by the straps, weighed it in his palm.

“You won’t bribe me,” the Cerberus said proudly.

“I don’t intend to.”

The porter was too huge to have the reflexes which would let him dodge or shield himself from a quick blow given by an ordinary man. He didn’t even have time to blink before the witcher’s blow landed. The heavy purse struck him in the temple with a metallic crash. He collapsed against the door, grabbing the frame with both hands. Geralt tore him away from it with a kick in the knee, shoved him with his shoulder and fetched him another blow with the purse. The doorman’s eyes grew hazy and diverged in a comical squint, and his legs folded under him like two penknives. The witcher, seeing the strapping fellow moving, although almost unconscious, walloped him with force for the third time, right on the crown of his head.

“Money,” he muttered, “opens all doors.”

It was dark in the vestibule. A loud snoring came from the door on the left. The witcher peeped in carefully. A fat woman, her nightdress hitched up above her hips, was asleep on a tumbled pallet, snoring and snorting through her nose. It wasn’t the most beautiful sight. Geralt dragged the porter into the little room and closed the door.

On the right was another door, half-opened, and behind it stone steps led down. The witcher was about to pass them when an indistinct curse, a clatter and the dry crash of a vessel cracking reached him from below.

The room was a big kitchen, full of utensils, smelling of herbs and resinous wood. On the stone floor, among fragments of a clay jug, knelt a completely naked man with his head hanging low.

“Apple juice, bloody hell,” he mumbled, shaking his head like a sheep which had rammed a wall by a mistake. “Apple…juice. Where…Where’re the servants?” “I beg your pardon?” the witcher asked politely.

The man raised his head and swallowed. His eyes were vague and very bloodshot.

“She wants juice from apples,” he stated, then got up with evident difficulty, sat down on a chest covered with a sheepskin coat, and leaned against the stove. “I have to…take it upstairs because—” “Do I have the pleasure of speaking to the merchant Beau Berrant?” “Quieter.” The man grimaced painfully. “Don’t yell. Listen, in that barrel there…Juice. Apple. Pour it into something…and help me get upstairs, all right?” Geralt shrugged, then nodded sympathetically. He generally avoided overdoing the alcohol but the state in which the merchant found himself was not entirely unknown to him. He found a jug and a tin mug among the crockery and drew some juice from the barrel. He heard snoring and turned. Beau Berrant was fast asleep, his head hanging on his chest.

For a moment, the witcher considered pouring juice over him to wake him up, but he changed his mind. He left the kitchen, carrying the jug. The corridor ended in a heavy inlaid door. He entered carefully, opening it just enough to slip inside. It was dark, so he dilated his pupils. And wrinkled his nose.

A heavy smell of sour wine, candles and overripe fruit hung in the air. And something else, that brought to mind a mixture of the scents of lilac and gooseberries.

He looked around. The table in the middle of the chamber bore a battlefield of jugs, carafes, goblets, silver plates, dishes and ivory-handled cutlery. A creased tablecloth, which had been pushed aside, was soaked in wine, covered in purple stains and stiff with wax which had trickled down the candlesticks. Orange peel glowed like flowers among plum and peach stones, pear cores and grape stalks. A goblet had fallen over and smashed. The other was in one piece, half full, with a turkey bone sticking out of it. Next to the goblet stood a black, high-heeled slipper. It was made of basilisk skin. There wasn’t a more expensive raw material which could be used in the making of shoes.

The other slipper lay under a chair on top of a carelessly discarded black dress with white frills and an embroidered flowery pattern.

For a moment Geralt stood undecided, struggling with embarrassment and the desire to turn on his heel and leave. But that would have meant his tussle with the Cerberus below had been unnecessary. And the witcher didn’t like doing anything unnecessarily. He noticed winding stairs in the corner of the chamber.

On the steps, he found four withered white roses and a napkin stained with wine and crimson lipstick. The scent of lilac and gooseberries grew stronger. The stairs led to a bedroom, the floor of which was covered in an enormous, shaggy animal skin. A white shirt with lace cuffs, and umpteen white roses, lay on the skin. And a black stocking.

The other stocking hung from one of the four engraved posts which supported the domed canopy over the bed. The engravings on the posts depicted nymphs and fawns in various positions. Some of the positions were interesting. Others funny. Many repeated themselves.

Geralt cleared his throat loudly, looking at the abundant black locks visible from under the eiderdown. The eiderdown moved and moaned. Geralt cleared his throat even louder.

“Beau?” the abundance of black locks asked indistinctly. “Have you brought the juice?” “Yes.”

A pale triangular face, violet eyes and narrow, slightly contorted lips appeared beneath the black tresses.

“Ooooh…” The lips became even more contorted. “Ooooh…I’m dying of thirst…” “Here you are.”

The woman sat up, scrambling out of the bedclothes. She had pretty shoulders, a shapely neck and, around it, a black velvet choker with a star-shaped jewel sparkling with diamonds. Apart from the choker, she had nothing on.

“Thank you.” She took the mug from his hand, drank greedily, then raised her arms and touched her temples. The eiderdown slipped down even further. Geralt averted his eyes—politely, but unwillingly.

“Who are you?” asked the black-haired woman, narrowing her eyes and covering herself with the eiderdown. “What are you doing here? And where, dammit, is Berrant?” “Which question shall I answer first?”

He immediately regretted his sarcasm. The woman raised her hand and a golden streak shot out from her fingers. Geralt reacted instinctively, crossing both hands in the Sign of Heliotrope, and caught the spell just in front of his face, but the discharge was so strong that it threw him back against the wall. He sank to the floor.

“No need!” he shouted, seeing the woman raise her hand again. “Lady Yennefer! I come in peace, with no evil intentions!” A stamping came from the stairs and servants loomed in the bedroom doorway.

“Lady Yennefer!”

“Leave,” the sorceress ordered calmly. “I don’t need you. You’re paid to keep an eye on the house. But since this individual has, nevertheless, managed to get in, I’ll take care of him myself. Pass that on to Berrant. And prepare a bath for me.” The witcher got up with difficulty. Yennefer observed him in silence, narrowing her eyes.

“You parried my spell,” she finally said. “You’re not a sorcerer; that’s obvious. But you reacted exceptionally fast. Tell me who you are, stranger who has come in peace. And I advise you to speak quickly.” “I’m Geralt of Rivia. A witcher.”

Yennefer leaned out of the bed, grasping a faun—engraved on the pole—by a piece of anatomy well adapted to being grasped. Without taking her eyes off Geralt, she picked a coat with a fur collar up off the floor and wrapped herself up in it tightly before getting up. She poured herself another mug of juice without hurrying, drank it in one go, coughed and came closer. Geralt discreetly rubbed his lower back which, a moment ago, had collided painfully with the wall.

“Geralt of Rivia,” repeated the sorceress, looking at him from behind black lashes. “How did you get in here? And for what reason? You didn’t hurt Berrant, I hope?” “No. I didn’t. Lady Yennefer, I need your help.”

“A witcher,” she muttered, coming up even closer and wrapping the coat around her more tightly. “Not only is it the first one I’ve seen up close but it’s none other than the famous White Wolf. I’ve heard about you.” “I can imagine.”

“I don’t know what you can imagine.” She yawned, then came even closer. “May I?” She touched his cheek and looked him in the eyes. He clenched his jaw. “Do your pupils automatically adapt to light or can you narrow and dilate them according to your will?” “Yennefer,” he said calmly, “I rode nonstop all day from Rinde. I waited all night for the gates to open. I gave your doorman, who didn’t want to let me in, a blow to the head. I disturbed your sleep and peace, discourteously and importunately. All because my friend needs help which only you can give him. Give it to him, please, and then, if you like, we can talk about mutations and aberrations.” She took a step back and contorted her lips unpleasantly. “What sort of help do you mean?” “The regeneration of organs injured through magic. The throat, larynx and vocal cords. An injury caused by a scarlet mist. Or something very much like it.” “Very much like it,” she repeated. “To put it in a nutshell, it wasn’t a scarlet mist which has injured your friend. So what was it? Speak out. Being torn from my sleep at dawn, I have neither the strength nor the desire to probe your brain.” “Hmm…It’s best I start from the beginning.”

“Oh, no,” she interrupted him. “If it’s all that complicated, then wait. An aftertaste in my mouth, disheveled hair, sticky eyes and other morning inconveniences strongly affect my perceptive faculties. Go downstairs to the bath-chamber in the cellar. I’ll be there in a minute and then you’ll tell me everything.” “Yennefer, I don’t want to be persistent but time is pressing. My friend—” “Geralt,” she interrupted sharply, “I climbed out of bed for you and I didn’t intend to do that before the chime of midday. I’m prepared to do without breakfast. Do you know why? Because you brought me the apple juice. You were in a hurry, your head was troubled with your friend’s suffering, you forced your way in here, and yet you thought of a thirsty woman. You won me over, so my help is not out of the question. But I won’t do anything without hot water and soap. Go. Please.” “Very well.”

“Geralt.”

“Yes.” He stopped on the threshold.

“Make use of the opportunity to have a bath yourself. I can not only guess the age and breed of your horse, but also its color, by the smell.” IV

She entered the bath-chamber just as Geralt, sitting naked on a tiny stool, was pouring water over himself from a bucket. He cleared his throat and modestly turned his back to her.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she said, throwing an armful of clothing on the hook. “I don’t faint at the sight of a naked man. Triss Merigold, a friend, says if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” He got up, wrapping a towel round his hips.

“Beautiful scar.” She smiled, looking at his chest. “What was it? Did you fall under the blade in a sawmill?” He didn’t answer. The sorceress continued to observe him, tilting her head coquettishly.

“The first witcher I can look at from close up, and completely naked at that. Aha!” She leaned over, listening. “I can hear your heart beat. It’s very slow. Can you control how much adrenalin you secrete? Oh, forgive me my professional curiosity. Apparently, you’re touchy about the qualities of your own body. You’re wont to describe these qualities using words which I greatly dislike, lapsing into pompous sarcasm with it, something I dislike even more.” He didn’t answer.

“Well, enough of that. My bath is getting cold.” Yennefer moved as if she wanted to discard her coat, then hesitated. “I’ll take my bath while you talk, to save time. But I don’t want to embarrass you and, besides, we hardly know each other. So then, taking decency into account—” “I’ll turn around,” he proposed hesitantly.

“No. I have to see the eyes of the person I’m talking to. I’ve got a better idea.” He heard an incantation being recited, felt his medallion quiver and saw the black coat softly slip to the floor. Then he heard the water splashing.

“Now I can’t see your eyes, Yennefer,” he said. “And that’s a pity.” The invisible sorceress snorted and splashed in the tub. “Go on.”

Geralt finished struggling with his trousers, pulling them on under his towel, and sat on the bench. Buckling up his boots, he related the adventure by the river, cutting out most of the skirmish with the catfish. Yennefer didn’t seem the type to be interested in fishing.

When he got to the part where the cloud-creature escaped from the jar, the huge soapy sponge froze.

“Well, well,” he heard, “that’s interesting. A djinn in a bottle.” “No djinn,” he contested. “It was some variant of scarlet mist. Some new, unknown type—” “The new and unknown type deserves to be called something,” said the invisible Yennefer. “The name djinn is no worse than any other. Continue, please.” He obeyed. The soap in the tub foamed relentlessly as he continued his tale, and the water overflowed. Something caught his eye. Looking more carefully he discerned outlines and shapes revealed by the soap covering the invisible Yennefer. They fascinated him to the extent that he was struck dumb.

“Go on!” a voice coming from nothingness, from above the outlines which so absorbed him, urged. “What happened next?” “That’s all,” he said. “I chased him away, that djinn, as you call him—” “How?” The ladle rose and poured water. The soap vanished, as did the shapes.

Geralt sighed. “With an incantation,” he said. “An exorcism.”

“Which one?” The ladle poured water once more. The witcher started to observe the ladle’s action more diligently because the water, albeit briefly, also revealed this and that. He repeated the incantation, substituting the vowel “e” with an intake of breath, according to the safety rule. He thought he’d impress the sorceress by knowing the rule so he was surprised when he heard laughter coming from the tub.

“What’s so funny?”

“That exorcism of yours…” The towel flew off its peg and suddenly began to wipe the rest of the outlines. “Triss is going to kill herself laughing when I tell her. Who taught you that, witcher? That incantation?” “A priestess from Huldra’s sanctuary. It’s a secret language of the temple—” “Secret to some.” The towel slapped against the brim of the tub, water sprayed on to the floor and wet footprints marked the sorceress’s steps. “That wasn’t an incantation, Geralt. Nor would I advise you to repeat those words in other temples.” “What was it, if not an incantation?” he asked, watching two black stockings outline shapely legs, one after the other.

“A witty saying.” Frilly knickers clung to nothing in an unusually interesting manner. “If rather indecent.” A white shirt with an enormous flower-shaped ruffle fluttered upward and outlined Yennefer’s body. She didn’t, the witcher noticed, bother with the whalebone nonsense usually worn by women. She didn’t have to.

“What saying?” he asked.

“Never mind.”

The cork sprang from a rectangular crystal bottle standing on the stool. The bath-chamber started to smell of lilac and gooseberries. The cork traced several circles and jumped back into place. The sorceress fastened the cuffs of her shirt, pulled on a dress and materialized.

“Fasten me up.” She turned her back to him while combing her hair with a tortoiseshell comb. He noticed that the comb had a long, sharp prong which could, if need be, easily take the place of a dagger.

He took a deliberately long time fastening her dress, one hook at a time, enjoying the scent of her hair, which fell halfway down her back in a black cascade.

“Going back to the bottle creature,” said Yennefer, putting diamond earrings in her ears, “it’s obvious that it wasn’t your funny incantation that drove him away. The hypothesis that he discharged his fury on your friend and left seems closer to the truth.” “Probably,” Geralt agreed, gloomily. “I don’t think he flew off to Cidaris to do away with Valdo Marx.” “Who’s Valdo Marx?”

“A troubadour who considers my companion, also a poet and musician, a talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses.” The sorceress turned round with a strange glimmer in her eyes. “Could it be that your friend managed to express a wish?” “Two. Both stupid. Why do you ask? This fulfilling of wishes by genies is nonsense, after all, djinns, spirits of the lamp—” “Clearly nonsense,” repeated Yennefer with a smile. “Of course. It’s an invention, a fairy tale devoid of any sense, like all the legends in which good spirits and fortune tellers fulfill wishes. Stories like that are made up by poor simpletons, who can’t even dream of fulfilling their wishes and desires themselves. I’m pleased you’re not one of them, Geralt of Rivia. It makes you closer in spirit to me. If I want something, I don’t dream of it—I act. And I always get what I want.” “I don’t doubt it. Are you ready?”

“I am.” The sorceress finished fastening the straps of her slippers and stood up. Even in high heels, she wasn’t impressively tall. She shook her hair which, he found, had retained its picturesque, disheveled and curling disarray despite the furious combing.

“I’ve got a question, Geralt. The seal which closed the bottle…Has your friend still got it?” The witcher reflected. He had the seal, not Dandilion. But experience had taught him that sorcerers shouldn’t be told too much.

“Hmm…I think so.” He deceived her as to the reason for his delay in replying. “Yes, he probably does. Why? Is the seal important?” “That’s a strange question,” she said sharply, “for a witcher and a specialist in supernatural monstrosities. Someone who ought to know that such a seal is important enough not to touch. And not to let their friend touch.” He clenched his jaw. The blow was well aimed.

“Oh, well.” Yennefer changed her tone to a much gentler one. “No one’s infallible and no witcher’s infallible, as we see. Everyone can make a mistake. Well, we can get it on our way. Where’s your comrade?” “Here, in Rinde. At Errdil’s. The elf’s.”

She looked at him carefully.

“At Errdil’s?” she repeated, contorting her lips in a smile. “I know where that is. And I gather his cousin Chireadan is there too?” “That’s right. But what—?”

“Nothing,” she interrupted, raised her arms and closed her eyes.

The medallion around the witcher’s neck pulsed, tugged at the chain.

On the damp bath-chamber wall shone the luminous outline of a door which framed a swirling phosphorescent milky nothingness. The witcher cursed. He didn’t like magical portals, or traveling by them.

“Do we have to…” He cleared his throat. “It’s not far—”

“I can’t walk the streets of this town,” she cut him short. “They’re not too crazy about me here. They might insult me and throw stones—or do something worse. Several people are effectively ruining my reputation here, thinking they can get away with it. Don’t worry, my portals are safe.” Geralt had once watched as only half a traveler using a safe portal flew through. The other half was never found. He knew of several cases where people had entered a portal and never been seen again.

The sorceress adjusted her hair again and pinned a pearl-embossed purse to her belt. The purse looked too small to hold anything other than a handful of coppers and a lipstick, but Geralt knew it was no ordinary purse.

“Hold me. Tighter. I’m not made of china. On our way!”

The medallion vibrated, something flashed and Geralt suddenly found himself in black nothingness, in penetrating cold. He couldn’t see, hear or feel anything. Cold was all that his senses could register.

He wanted to curse, but didn’t have time.

V

“It’s an hour since she went in.” Chireadan turned over the hourglass standing on the table. “I’m starting to get worried. Was Dandilion’s throat really so bad? Don’t you think we ought to go and have a look?” “She made it quite clear that she didn’t want us to.” Geralt finished his mug of herb tea, grimacing dreadfully. He valued and liked the settled elves for their intelligence, calm reserve and sense of humor, but he couldn’t understand or share their taste in food or drink. “I don’t intend to disturb her, Chireadan. Magic requires time. It can take all day and night, as long as Dandilion gets better.” “Oh well, you’re right.”

A sound of hammering came from the room next door. Errdil, as it turned out, lived in a deserted inn which he had bought intending to renovate and then open with his wife, a quiet, taciturn elf. Vratimir, who had taken to their company after a night spent with the elves in the guardroom, volunteered to help with the repairs. He got down to renovating the wood paneling, working alongside the married couple, as soon as the confusion created by the witcher and Yennefer leaping through the wall in the flash of a portal had subsided.

“I didn’t think you’d find it so easy, if I’m to be honest,” Chireadan went on. “Yennefer isn’t the most spontaneous of people when it comes to help. Others’ troubles don’t particularly bother her, and don’t disturb her sleep. In a word, I’ve never heard of her helping anyone if there wasn’t something in it for her. I wonder what’s in it for her to help you and Dandilion.” “Aren’t you exaggerating?” The witcher smiled. “I didn’t have such a bad impression of her. She likes to demonstrate her superiority, it’s true, but compared with other wizards, with that whole arrogant bunch, she’s walking charm and kindliness personified.” Chireadan also smiled. “It’s almost as though you thought a scorpion were prettier than a spider,” he said, “because it’s got such a lovely tail. Be careful, Geralt. You’re not the first to have judged her like that without knowing she’s turned her charm and beauty into weapons. Weapons she uses skilfully and without scruple. Which, of course, doesn’t change the fact that she’s a fascinating and good-looking woman. You wouldn’t disagree, would you?” Geralt glanced keenly at the elf. For a second time, he thought he saw traces of a blush on his face. It surprised him no less than Chireadan’s words. Pure-blooded elves were not wont to admire human women, even the very beautiful ones, and Yennefer, although attractive in her own way, couldn’t pass as a great beauty.

Each to their own taste but, in actual fact, not many would describe sorceresses as good-looking. Indeed, all of them came from social circles where the only fate for daughters would be marriage. Who would have thought of condemning their daughter to years of tedious studies and the tortures of somatic mutations if she could be given away in marriage and advantageously allied? Who wished to have a sorceress in their family? Despite the respect enjoyed by magicians, a sorceress’s family did not benefit from her in the least because by the time the girl had completed her education, nothing tied her to her family anymore—only brotherhood counted, to the exclusion of all else. So only daughters with no chance of finding a husband become sorceresses.

Unlike priestesses and druidesses, who only unwillingly took ugly or crippled girls, sorcerers took anyone who showed evidence of a predisposition. If the child passed the first years of training, magic entered into the equation—straightening and evening out legs, repairing bones which had badly knitted, patching harelips, removing scars, birthmarks and pox scars. The young sorceress would become attractive because the prestige of her profession demanded it. The result was pseudo-pretty women with the angry and cold eyes of ugly girls. Girls who couldn’t forget their ugliness had been covered by the mask of magic only for the prestige of their profession.

No, Geralt couldn’t understand Chireadan. His eyes, the eyes of a witcher, registered too many details.

“No, Chireadan,” he answered. “I wouldn’t disagree. Thank you for the warning. But this only concerns Dandilion. He suffered at my side, in my presence. I didn’t manage to save him and I couldn’t help him. I’d sit on a scorpion with my bare backside if I knew it would help him.” “That’s precisely what you’ve got to beware of most.” The elf smiled enigmatically. “Because Yennefer knows it and she likes to make the most of such knowledge. Don’t trust her, Geralt. She’s dangerous.” He didn’t answer.

Upstairs, the door squeaked. Yennefer stood at the stairs, leaning on the gallery balustrade.

“Witcher, could you come here?”

“Of course.”

The sorceress leaned her back against the door of one of the few rooms with furniture, where they had put the suffering troubadour.

The witcher approached, watchful and silent. He saw her left shoulder, slightly higher than her right. Her nose, slightly too long. Her lips, a touch too narrow. Her chin, receding a little too much. Her brows a little too irregular. Her eyes… He saw too many details. Quite unnecessarily.

“How’s Dandilion?”

“Do you doubt my capabilities?”

He continued watching. She had the figure of a twenty-year-old, although he preferred not to guess at her real age. She moved with natural, unaffected grace. No, there was no way of guessing what she had been like before, what had been improved. He stopped thinking about it; there wasn’t any sense.

“Your talented friend will be well,” she said. “He’ll recover his vocal talents.” “You have my gratitude, Yennefer.”

She smiled. “You’ll have an opportunity to prove it.”

“Can I look in on him?”

She remained silent for a moment, watching him with a strange smile and drumming her fingers on the doorframe. “Of course. Go in.” The medallion on the witcher’s neck started to quiver, sharply and rhythmically.

A glass sphere the size of a small watermelon, aflame with a milky light, lay in the center of the floor. The sphere marked the heart of a precisely traced nine-pointed star whose arms reached the corners and walls of the small chamber. A red pentagram was inscribed within the star. The tips of the pentagram were marked by black candles standing in weirdly shaped holders. Black candles had also been lit at the head of the bed where Dandilion, covered with sheepskins, rested. The poet was breathing peacefully; he didn’t wheeze or rasp anymore and the rictus of pain had disappeared from his face, to be replaced by an idiotic smile of happiness.

“He’s asleep,” said Yennefer. “And dreaming.”

Geralt examined the patterns traced on the floor. The magic hidden within them was palpable, but he knew it was a dormant magic. It brought to mind the purr of a sleeping lion, without suggesting how the roar might sound.

“What is this, Yennefer?”

“A trap.”

“For what?”

“For you, for the time being.” The sorceress turned the key in the lock, then turned it over in her hand. The key disappeared.

“And thus I’m trapped,” he said coldly. “What now? Are you going to assault my virtue?” “Don’t flatter yourself.” Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed. Dandilion, still smiling like a moron, groaned quietly. It was, without a doubt, a groan of bliss.

“What’s this all about, Yennefer? If it’s a game, I don’t know the rules.” “I told you,” she began, “that I always get what I want. As it happens, I desire something that Dandilion has. I’ll get it from him and we can part ways. Don’t worry, he won’t come to any harm—” “The things you’ve set on the floor,” he interrupted, “are used to summon demons. Someone always comes to harm where demons are summoned. I won’t allow it.” “—not a hair of his head will be harmed,” continued the sorceress, without paying any attention to his words. “His voice will be even more beautiful and he’ll be very pleased, even happy. We’ll all be happy. And we’ll part with no ill feelings or resentment.” “Oh, Virginia,” moaned Dandilion without opening his eyes. “Your breasts are so beautiful, more delicate than a swan’s down…Virginia…” “Has he lost his mind? Is he raving?”

“He’s dreaming.” Yennefer smiled. “His dream wish is being satisfied in his sleep. I probed his mind to the very depths. There wasn’t much there. A few obscenities, several dreams and masses of poetry. But be that as it may. The seal which plugged the bottle with the djinn, Geralt, I know he doesn’t have it. You do. Please give it to me.” “What do you need the seal for?”

“How should I answer your question?” The sorceress smiled coquettishly. “Let’s try this: it’s none of your damned business, witcher. Does that satisfy you?” “No.” His smile was equally nasty. “It doesn’t. But don’t reproach yourself for it, Yennefer. I’m not easily satisfied. Only those who are above average have managed so far.” “Pity. So you’ll remain unsatisfied. It’s your loss. The seal, please. Don’t pull that face; it doesn’t suit either your good looks or your complexion. In case you hadn’t noticed, let me tell you that you are now beginning to repay the gratitude you owe me. The seal is the first installment for the price to be paid for the singer’s voice.” “I see you’ve divided the price into several installments,” he said coldly. “Fine. I might have expected that. But let it be a fair trade, Yennefer. I bought your help. And I’ll pay.” She contorted her lips in a smile, but her violet eyes remained wide open and cold.

“You shouldn’t have any doubts as to that, witcher.”

“Me,” he repeated. “Not Dandilion. I’m taking him to a safe place. When I’ve done that, I’ll come back and pay your second installment, and all the others. Because as to the first…” He reached into a secret pocket of his belt and pulled out the brass seal with the sign of a star and broken cross.

“Here, take it. Not as an installment. Accept it from a witcher as proof of his gratitude for having treated him more kindly, albeit in a calculated manner, than the majority of your brethren would have done. Accept it as evidence of goodwill, which ought to convince you that, having seen to my friend’s safety, I’ll return to repay you. I didn’t see the scorpion amidst the flowers, Yennefer. I’m prepared to pay for my inattention.” “A pretty speech.” The sorceress folded her arms. “Touching and pompous. Pity it’s in vain. I need Dandilion, so he’s staying here.” “He’s already been close to the creature you intend to draw here.” Geralt indicated the patterns on the floor. “When you’ve finished your handiwork and brought the djinn here, Dandilion is most certainly going to suffer despite all your promises, maybe even more than before. Because it’s the creature from the bottle that you want, isn’t it? Do you intend to master it, force it to serve you? You don’t have to answer. I know it’s none of my damned business. Do what you want, draw ten demons in if you like. But without Dandilion. If you put him at risk, this will no longer be an honest trade, Yennefer, and you don’t have the right to demand payment for that. I won’t allow—” He broke off.

“I wondered when you’d feel it,” giggled the sorceress.

Geralt tensed his muscles and, clenching his jaw until it hurt, strained his entire will. It didn’t help. He was paralyzed, like a stone statue, like a post which had been dug into the ground. He couldn’t even wiggle a toe.

“I knew you could deflect a spell thrown straight at you,” said Yennefer. “I also knew that before you tried anything, you’d try to impress me with your eloquence. You were talking while the spell hanging over you was working and slowly breaking you. Now you can only talk. But you don’t have to impress me anymore. I know you’re eloquent. Any further efforts in that direction will only spoil the effect.” “Chireadan—” he said with an effort, still fighting the magical paralysis. “Chireadan will realize that you’re up to something. He’ll soon work it out, suspect something any minute now, because he doesn’t trust you, Yennefer. He hasn’t trusted you from the start—” The sorceress swept her hand in a broad gesture. The walls of the chamber became blurred and took on a uniform dull gray appearance and color. The door disappeared, the windows disappeared, even the dusty curtains and pictures on the wall, splattered with flies, vanished.

“What if Chireadan does figure it out?” She grimaced maliciously. “Is he going to run for help? Nobody will get through my barrier. But Chireadan’s not going to run anywhere. He won’t do anything against me. Anything. He’s under my spell. No, it’s not a question of black sorcery. I didn’t do anything in that way. It’s a simple question of body chemistry. He’s fallen in love with me, the blockhead. Didn’t you know? Can you imagine, he even intended to challenge Beau to a duel. A jealous elf. That rarely happens. Geralt, it’s not for nothing that I chose this house.” “Beau Berrant, Chireadan, Errdil, Dandilion. You really are heading for your goal as straight as you can. But me, Yennefer, you’re not going to use me.” “Oh I am, I am.” The sorceress got up from the bed and approached him, carefully avoiding the signs and symbols marked out on the floor. “After all, I did say that you owe me something for curing the poet. It’s a matter of a trifle, a small favor. After what I’ve done, what I intend to do here in a moment, I’m leaving Rinde and I’ve still got unpaid accounts in this town. I’ve promised several people here something, and I always keep my promises. Since I won’t have time to do so myself, you’ll keep those promises for me.” He wrestled with all his might. In vain.

“Don’t struggle, my little witcher.” She smiled spitefully. “It’s pointless. You’ve got a strong will and quite a bit of resistance to magic but you can’t contend with me and my spell. And don’t act out a farce for me; don’t try to charm me with your hard and insolent masculinity. You are the only one to think you’re insolent and hard. You’d do anything for me in order to save your friend, even without spells at that. You’d pay any price. You’d lick my boots. And maybe something else, too, if I unexpectedly wished to amuse myself.” He remained silent. Yennefer was standing in front of him, smiling and fiddling with the obsidian star sparkling with diamonds pinned to her velvet ribbon.

“I already knew what you were like,” she continued, “after exchanging a few words with you in Beau’s bedroom. And I knew what form of payment I’d demand from you. My accounts in Rinde could be settled by anyone, including Chireadan. But you’re the one who’s going to do it because you have to pay me. For your insolence, for the cold way you look at me, for the eyes which fish for every detail, for your stony face and sarcastic tone of voice. For thinking that you could stand face-to-face with Yennefer of Vergerberg and believe her to be full of self-admiration and arrogance, a calculating witch, while staring at her soapy tits. Pay up, Geralt of Rivia!” She grabbed his hair with both hands and kissed him violently on the lips, sinking her teeth into them like a vampire. The medallion on his neck quivered and it felt to Geralt as if the chain was shrinking and strangling him. Something blazed in his head while a terrible humming filled his ears. He stopped seeing the sorceress’s violet eyes and fell into darkness.

He was kneeling. Yennefer was talking to him in a gentle, soft voice.

“You remember?”

“Yes, my lady.” It was his own voice.

“So go and carry out my instructions.”

“At your command, my lady.”

“You may kiss my hand.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

He felt himself approach her on his knees. Ten thousand bees buzzed in his head. Her hand smelt of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries…Lilac and gooseberries…A flash. Darkness.

A balustrade, stairs. Chireadan’s face.

“Geralt! What’s the matter with you? Geralt, where are you going?” “I have to…” His own voice. “I have to go—”

“Oh, gods! Look at his eyes!”

Vratimir’s face, contorted with horror. Errdil’s face. And Chireadan’s voice.

“No! Errdil! Don’t touch him! Don’t try to stop him! Out of his way—get out of his way!” The scent of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries…

A door. The explosion of sunlight. It’s hot. Humid. The scent of lilac and gooseberries. There’s going to be a storm, he thought. And that was his last thought.