The Last Wish Part 2

VI

Darkness. The scent…

Scent? No, smell. Stench of urine, rotten straw and wet rags. The stink of a smoldering torch stuck into an iron grip set in a wall of uneven stone blocks. A shadow thrown by the light of the torch, a shadow on the dirt floor—the shadow of a grille.

The witcher cursed.

“At last.” He felt someone lift him up, rest his back against the damp wall. “I was beginning to worry, you didn’t regain consciousness for so long.” “Chireadan? Where—dammit, my head’s splitting—where are we?”

“Where do you think?”

Geralt wiped his face and looked around. Three rogues were sitting by the opposite wall. He couldn’t see them clearly; they were sitting as far from the torch light as possible, in near complete darkness. Something which looked like a heap of rags crouched under the grille which separated them from the lit corridor. It was, in fact, a thin old man with a nose like a stork’s beak. The length of his matted stringy hair and the state of his clothes showed that he hadn’t arrived yesterday.

“They’ve thrown us in the dungeon,” he said gloomily.

“I’m glad you’ve regained your ability to draw logical conclusions,” said the elf.

“Bloody hell…And Dandilion? How long have we been here? How much time has gone by since—?” “I don’t know. I was unconscious, just like you, when I was thrown in here.” Chireadan raked up the straw to sit more comfortably. “Is it important?” “And how, dammit! Yennefer—And Dandilion—Dandilion’s there, with her, and she’s planning—Hey, you! How long have we been in here?” The other prisoners whispered among themselves. None replied.

“Have you gone deaf?” Geralt spat, still unable to get rid of the metallic taste in his mouth. “I’m asking you, what time of day is it? Or night? Surely you know what time they feed you?” They muttered again, cleared their throats. “Sirs,” said one of them at last. “Leave us in peace and don’t talk to us. We be decent thieves, not some politicals. We didn’t try to attack the authorities. We was only stealing.” “That be it,” said another. “You’ve your corner, we’ve ours. And let each look after his own.” Chireadan snorted. The witcher spat.

“That’s the way it goes,” mumbled the hairy old man with a long nose. “Everyone in the clink guards his own corner and holds with his own.” “And you, old man,” asked the elf sneeringly, “are you with them or with us? Which camp do you count yourself in?” “None,” he answered proudly, “because I’m innocent.”

Geralt spat again. “Chireadan?” he asked, rubbing his temple. “This attempt on the authorities…Is it true?” “Absolutely. You don’t remember?”

“I walked out into the street…People were looking at me…Then…Then there was a shop—” “A pawnbroker’s.” The elf lowered his voice. “You went into the pawnbroker’s. As soon as you walked in, you punched the owner in the teeth. Hard. Very hard.” The witcher ground his teeth and cursed.

“The pawnbroker fell,” Chireadan continued quietly. “And you kicked him several times in delicate places. The assistant ran to help his master and you threw him out of the window, into the street.” “I fear,” muttered Geralt, “that wasn’t the end of it.”

“Your fears are well founded. You left the pawnbroker’s and marched down the center of the street, jostling passersby and shouting some nonsense about a lady’s honor. There was quite a crowd following you, Errdil, Vratimir and I among them. Then you stopped in front of Laurelnose the apothecary’s house, went in, and were back in the street a moment later, dragging Laurelnose by the leg. And you made something of a speech to the crowd.” “What sort of a speech?”

“To put it simply, you stated that a self-respecting man shouldn’t ever call a professional harlot a whore because it’s base and repugnant, while using the word whore to describe a woman one has never knocked off or paid any money for doing so, is childish and punishable. The punishment, you announced, would be dealt there and then, and it would be fitting for a spoilt child. You thrust the apothecary’s head between his knees, pulled down his pants and thrashed his arse with a belt.” “Go on, Chireadan. Go on. Don’t spare me.”

“You beat Laurelnose on the backside and the apothecary howled and sobbed, called to gods and men alike for help, begged for mercy—he even promised to be better in the future, but you clearly didn’t believe him. Then several armed bandits, who in Rinde go by the name of guards, came running up.” “And”—Geralt nodded—“that’s when I made a hit at the authorities?”

“Not at all. You made a hit at them much earlier. Both the pawnbroker and Laurelnose are on the town council. Both had called for Yennefer to be thrown out of town. Not only did they vote for it at the council but they bad-mouthed her in taverns and spread vulgar gossip.” “I guessed that. Carry on. You stopped when the guards appeared. They threw me in here?” “They wanted to. Oh, Geralt, what a sight it was. What you did to them, it’s hard to describe. They had swords, whips, clubs, hatchets, and you only had an ash cane with a pommel, which you’d snatched from some dandy. And when they were all lying on the ground, you walked on. Most of us knew where you were going.” “I’d be happy to know too.”

“You were going to the temple. Because the priest Krepp, who’s also a member of the council, dedicated a lot of time to Yennefer in his sermons. You promised him a lesson in respect for the fair sex. When you spoke of him, you omitted his title and threw in other descriptions, to the delight of the children trailing after you.” “Aha,” muttered Geralt. “So blasphemy came into it, too. What else? Desecration of the temple?” “No. You didn’t manage to get in there. An entire unit of municipal guards, armed—it seemed to me—with absolutely everything they could lay their hands on in the armory apart from a catapult, was waiting in front of the temple. It looked as if they were going to slaughter you, but you didn’t reach them. You suddenly grasped your head with both hands and fainted.” “You don’t have to finish. So, Chireadan, how were you imprisoned?” “Several guards ran to attack you when you fell. I got into a dispute with them. I got a blow over the head with a mace and came to here, in this hole. No doubt they’ll accuse me of taking part in an anti-human conspiracy.” “Since we’re talking about accusations”—the witcher ground his teeth again—“what’s in store for us, do you think?” “If Neville, the mayor, gets back from the capital on time,” muttered Chireadan, “who knows…he’s a friend. But if he doesn’t, then sentence will be passed by the councilors, including Laurelnose and the pawnbroker, of course. And that means—” The elf made a brief gesture across his neck. Despite the darkness, the gesture left little doubt as to Chireadan’s meaning. The witcher didn’t reply. The thieves mumbled to each other and the tiny old man, locked up for his innocence, seemed to be asleep.

“Great,” said Geralt finally, and cursed vilely. “Not only will I hang, but I’ll do so with the knowledge that I’m the cause of your death, Chireadan. And Dandilion’s, too, no doubt. No, don’t interrupt. I know it’s Yennefer’s prank, but I’m the guilty one. It’s my foolishness. She deceived me, took the piss out of me, as the dwarves say.” “Hmm…” muttered the elf. “Nothing to add, nothing to take away. I warned you against her. Dammit, I warned you, and I turned out to be just as big an—pardon the word—idiot. You’re worried that I’m here because of you, but it’s quite the opposite. You’re locked up because of me. I could have stopped you in the street, overpowered you, not allowed—But I didn’t. Because I was afraid that when the spell she’d cast on you had dispelled, you’d go back and…harm her. Forgive me.” “I forgive you, because you’ve no idea how strong that spell was. My dear elf, I can break an ordinary spell within a few minutes and I don’t faint while doing it. You wouldn’t have managed to break Yennefer’s spell and you would have had difficulty overpowering me. Remember the guards.” “I wasn’t thinking about you. I repeat: I was thinking about her.”

“Chireadan?”

“Yes?”

“Do you…Do you—”

“I don’t like grand words,” interrupted the elf, smiling sadly. “I’m greatly, shall we say, fascinated by her. No doubt you’re surprised that anyone could be fascinated by her?” Geralt closed his eyes to recall an image which, without using grand words, fascinated him inexplicably.

“No, Chireadan,” he said. “I’m not surprised.”

Heavy steps sounded in the corridor, and a clang of metal. The dungeon was filled with the shadows of four guards. A key grated. The innocent old man leapt away from the bars like a lynx and hid among the criminals.

“So soon?” the elf, surprised, half-whispered. “I thought it would take longer to build the scaffold…” One of the guards, a tall, strapping fellow, bald as a knee, his mug covered with bristles like a boar, pointed at the witcher.

“That one,” he said briefly.

Two others grabbed Geralt, hauled him up and pressed him against the wall. The thieves squeezed into their corner; the long-nosed granddad buried himself in the straw. Chireadan wanted to jump up, but he fell to the dirt floor, retreating from the short sword pointed at his chest.

The bald guard stood in front of the witcher, pulled his sleeves up and rubbed his fist.

“Councilor Laurelnose,” he said, “told me to ask if you’re enjoying our little dungeon. Perhaps there’s something you need? Perhaps the chill is getting to you? Eh?” Geralt did not answer. Nor could he kick the bald man, as the guards who restrained him were standing on his feet in their heavy boots.

The bald man took a short swing and punched the witcher in the stomach. It didn’t help to tense his muscles in defense. Geralt, catching his breath with an effort, looked at the buckle of his own belt for a while; then the guards “hauled him up again.

“Is there nothing you need?” the guard continued, stinking of onions and rotting teeth. “The councilor will be pleased that you have no complaints.” Another blow, in the same place. The witcher choked and would have puked, but he had nothing to throw up.

The bald guard turned sideways. He was changing hands.

Wham! Geralt looked at the buckle of his belt again. Although it seemed strange, there was no hole above it through which the wall could be seen.

“Well?” The guard backed away a little, no doubt planning to take a wider swing. “Don’t you have any wishes? Mr. Laurelnose asked whether you have any. But why aren’t you saying anything? Tongue-tied? I’ll get it straight for you!” Wham!

Geralt didn’t faint this time either. And he had to faint because he cared for his internal organs. In order to faint, he had to force the guard to— The guard spat, bared his teeth and rubbed his fist again.

“Well? No wishes at all?”

“Just one…” moaned the witcher, raising his head with difficulty. “That you burst, you son-of-a-whore.” The bald guard ground his teeth, stepped back and took a swing—this time, according to Geralt’s plan, aiming for his head. But the blow never came. The guard suddenly gobbled like a turkey, grew red, grabbed his stomach with both hands, howled, roared with pain… And burst.

VII

And what am I to do with you?”

A blindingly bright ribbon of lightning cut the darkened sky outside the window, followed by a sharp, drawn-out crash of thunder. The downpour was getting harder as the storm cloud passed over Rinde.

Geralt and Chireadan, seated on a bench under a huge tapestry depicting the Prophet Lebiodus pasturing his sheep, remained silent, modestly hanging their heads. Mayor Neville was pacing the chamber, snorting and panting with anger.

“You bloody, shitty sorcerers!” he yelled suddenly, standing still. “Are you persecuting my town, or what? Aren’t there any other towns in the world?” The elf and witcher remained silent.

“To do something like—” the mayor choked. “To turn the warder…Like a tomato! To pulp! To red pulp! It’s inhuman!” “Inhuman and godless,” repeated the priest, also present. “So inhuman that even a fool could guess who’s behind it. Yes, mayor. We both know Chireadan and the man here, who calls himself a witcher, wouldn’t have enough Force to do this. It is all the work of Yennefer, that witch cursed by the gods!” There was a clap of thunder outside, as if confirming the priest’s words. “It’s her and no one else,” continued Krepp. “There’s no question about it. Who, if not Yennefer, would want revenge upon Laurelnose?” “Hehehe,” chuckled the mayor suddenly. “That’s the thing I’m least angry about. Laurelnose has been scheming against me; he’s been after my office. And now the people aren’t going to respect him. When they remember how he got it in the arse—” “That’s all it needs, Mr. Neville, you to applaud the crime.” Krepp frowned. “Let me remind you that had I not thrown an exorcism at the witcher, he would have raised his hand to strike me and the temple’s majesty—” “And that’s because you spoke vilely about her in your sermons, Krepp. Even Berrant complained about you. But what’s true is true. Do you hear that, you scoundrels?” The mayor turned to Geralt and Chireadan again. “Nothing justifies what you’ve done! I don’t intend to tolerate such things here! That’s enough, now get on with it, tell me everything, tell me what you have for your defense, because if you don’t, I swear by all the relics that I’ll lead you such a dance as you won’t forget to your dying day! Tell me everything, right now, as you would in a confessional!” Chireadan sighed deeply and looked meaningfully and pleadingly at the witcher.

Geralt also sighed, then cleared his throat. And he recounted everything. Well, almost everything.

“So that’s it,” said the priest after a moment’s silence. “A fine kettle of fish. A genie released from captivity. And an enchantress who has her sights on the genie. Not a bad arrangement. This could end badly, very badly.” “What’s a genie?” asked Neville. “And what does this Yennefer want?” “Enchanters,” explained Krepp, “draw their power from the forces of nature, or to put it more accurately, from the so-called Four Elements or Principles, commonly called the natural forces. Air, Water, Fire and Earth. Each of these elements has its own Dimension which is called a Plane in the jargon used by enchanters. There’s a Water Plane, Fire Plane and so on. These Dimensions, which are beyond our reach, are inhabited by what are called genies—” “That’s what they’re called in legends,” interrupted the witcher. “Because as far as I know—” “Don’t interrupt,” Krepp cut him short. “The fact that you don’t know much was evident in your tale, witcher. So be quiet and listen to what those wiser than you have to say. Going back to the genies, there are four sorts, just as there are four Planes. Djinns are air creatures; marides are associated with the principle of water; afreet are Fire genies and d’ao, the genies of Earth—” “You’ve run away with yourself, Krepp,” Neville butted in. “This isn’t a temple school; don’t lecture us. Briefly, what does Yennefer want with this genie?” “A genie like this, mayor, is a living reservoir of magical energy. A sorcerer who has a genie at their beck and call can direct that energy in the form of spells. They don’t have to draw the Force from Nature; the genie does it for them. The power of such an enchanter is enormous, close to omnipotence—” “Somehow I’ve never heard of a wizard who can do everything,” contradicted Neville. “On the contrary, the power of most of them is clearly exaggerated. They can’t do this, they can’t—” “The enchanter Stammelford,” interrupted the priest, once more taking on the tone and poise of an academic lecturer, “once moved a mountain because it obstructed the view from his tower. Nobody has managed to do the like, before or since. Because Stammelford, so they say, had the services of a d’ao, an Earth genie. There are records of deeds accomplished by other magicians on a similar scale. Enormous waves and catastrophic rains are certainly the work of marides. Fiery columns, fires and explosions the work of afreets—” “Whirlwinds, hurricanes, flights above the earth,” muttered Geralt, “Geoffrey Monck.” “Exactly. I see you do know something after all.” Krepp glanced at him more kindly. “Word has it old Monck had a way of forcing a djinn to serve him. There were rumors that he had more than one. He was said to keep them in bottles and make use of them when need arose. Three wishes from each genie, then it’s free and escapes into its own dimension.” “The one at the river didn’t fulfill anything,” said Geralt emphatically. “He immediately threw himself at Dandilion’s throat.” “Genies”—Krepp turned up his nose—“are spiteful and deceitful beings. They don’t like being packed into bottles and ordered to move mountains. They do everything they possibly can to make it impossible for you to express your wishes and then they fulfill them in a way which is hard to control and foresee, sometimes literally, so you have to be careful what you say. To subjugate a genie, you need a will of iron, nerves of steel, a strong Force and considerable abilities. From what you say, it looks like your abilities, witcher, were too modest.” “Too modest to subjugate the cad,” agreed Geralt. “But I did chase him away; he bolted so fast the air howled. And that’s also something. Yennefer, it’s true, ridiculed my exorcism—” “What was the exorcism? Repeat it.”

Geralt repeated it, word for word.

“What?!” The priest first turned pale, then red and finally blue. “How dare you! Are you making fun of me?” “Forgive me,” stuttered Geralt. “To be honest, I don’t know…what the words mean.” “So don’t repeat what you don’t know! I’ve no idea where you could have heard such filth!” “Enough of that.” The mayor waved it all aside. “We’re wasting time. Right. We now know what the sorceress wants the genie for. But you said, Krepp, that it’s bad. What’s bad? Let her catch him and go to hell, what do I care? I think—” No one ever found out what Neville was thinking, even if it wasn’t a boast. A luminous rectangle appeared on the wall next to the tapestry of Prophet Lebiodus, something flashed and Dandilion landed in the middle of the town hall.

“Innocent!” yelled the poet in a clear, melodious tenor, sitting on the floor and looking around, his eyes vague. “Innocent! The witcher is innocent! I wish you to believe it!” “Dandilion!” Geralt shouted, holding Krepp back, who was clearly getting ready to perform an exorcism or a curse. “Where have you…here…Dandilion!” “Geralt!” The bard jumped up.

“Dandilion!”

“Who’s this?” Neville growled. “Dammit, if you don’t put an end to your spells, there’s no guarantee what I’ll do. I’ve said that spells are forbidden in Rinde! First you have to put in a written application, then pay a tax and stamp duty…Eh? Isn’t it that singer, the witch’s hostage?” “Dandilion,” repeated Geralt, holding the poet by the shoulders. “How did you get here?” “I don’t know,” admitted the bard with a foolish, worried expression. “To be honest, I’m rather unaware of what happened to me. I don’t remember much and may the plague take me if I know what of that is real and what’s a nightmare. But I do remember quite a pretty, black-haired female with fiery eyes—” “What are you telling me about black-haired women for?” Neville interrupted angrily. “Get to the point, squire, to the point. You yelled that the witcher is innocent. How am I to understand that? That Laurelnose thrashed his own arse with his hands? Because if the witcher’s innocent, it couldn’t have been otherwise. Unless it was a mass hallucination.” “I don’t know anything about any arses or hallucinations,” said Dandilion proudly. “Or anything about laurel noses: I repeat, that the last thing I remember was an elegant woman dressed in tastefully coordinated black and white. She threw me into a shiny hole, a magic portal for sure. But first she gave me a clear and precise errand. As soon as I’d arrived, I was immediately to say, I quote: ‘My wish is for you to believe the witcher is not guilty for what occurred. That, and no other, is my wish.’ Word for word. Indeed, I tried to ask what all this was, what it was all about, and why. The black-haired woman didn’t let me get a word in edgeways. She scolded me most inelegantly, grasped me by the neck and threw me into the portal. That’s all. And now…” Dandilion pulled himself up, brushed his doublet, adjusted his collar and fancy—if dirty—ruffles. “…perhaps, gentlemen, you’d like to tell me the name of the best tavern in town and where it can be found.” “There are no bad taverns in my town,” said Neville slowly. “But before you see them for yourself, you’ll inspect the best dungeon in this town very thoroughly. You and your companions. Let me remind you that you’re still not free, you scoundrels! Look at them! One tells incredible stories while the other leaps out of the wall and shouts about innocence. I wish, he yells, you to believe me. He has the audacity to wish—” “My gods!” The priest suddenly grasped his bald crown. “Now I understand! The wish! The last wish!” “What’s happened to you, Krepp?” The mayor frowned. “Are you ill?”

“The last wish!” repeated the priest. “She made the bard express the last, the third wish. And Yennefer set a magical trap and, no doubt, captured the genie before he managed to escape into his own dimension! Mr. Neville, we must—” It thundered outside. So strongly that the walls shook.

“Dammit,” muttered the mayor, going up to the window. “That was close. As long as it doesn’t hit a house. All I need now is a fire—Oh gods! Just look! Just look at this! Krepp! What is it?” All of them, to a man, rushed to the window.

“Mother of mine!” yelled Dandilion, grabbing his throat. “It’s him! It’s that son of a bitch who strangled me!” “The djinn!” shouted Krepp. “The Air genie!”

“Above Errdil’s tavern!” shouted Chireadan, “above his roof!”

“She’s caught him!” The priest leaned out so far he almost fell. “Can you see the magical light? The sorceress has caught the genie!” Geralt watched in silence.

Once, years ago, when a little snot-faced brat following his studies in Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Settlement, he and a friend, Eskel, had captured a huge forest bumblebee and tied it to a jug with a thread. They were in fits of laughter watching the antics of the tied bumblebee, until Vesemir, their tutor, caught them at it and tanned their hides with a leather strap.

The djinn, circling above the roof of Errdil’s tavern, behaved exactly like that bumblebee. He flew up and fell, he sprang up and dived, he buzzed furiously in a circle. Because the djinn, exactly like the bumblebee in Kaer Morhen, was tied down. Twisted threads of blindingly bright light of various colors were tightly wrapped around him and ended at the roof. But the djinn had more options than the bumblebee, which couldn’t knock down surrounding roofs, rip thatches to shreds, destroy chimneys, and shatter towers and garrets. The djinn could. And did.

“It’s destroying the town,” wailed Neville. “That monster’s destroying my town!” “Hehehe,” laughed the priest. “She’s found her match, it seems! It’s an exceptionally strong djinn! I really don’t know who’s caught whom, the witch him or he the witch! Ha, it’ll end with the djinn grinding her to dust. Very good! Justice will be done!” “I shit on justice!” yelled the mayor, not caring if there were any voters under the window. “Look what’s happening there, Krepp! Panic, ruin! You didn’t tell me that, you bald idiot! You played the wise guy, gabbled on, but not a word about what’s most important! Why didn’t you tell me that that demon…Witcher! Do something! Do you hear, innocent sorcerer? Do something about that demon! I forgive you all your offences, but—” “There’s nothing can be done here, Mr. Neville,” snorted Krepp. “You didn’t listen to what I was saying, that’s all. You never listen to me. This, I repeat, is an exceptionally strong djinn. If it wasn’t for that, the sorceress would have hold of him already. Her spell is soon going to weaken, and then the djinn is going to crush her and escape. And we’ll have some peace.” “And in the meantime, the town will go to ruins?”

“We’ve got to wait,” repeated the priest, “but not idly. Give out the orders, mayor. Tell the people to evacuate the surrounding houses and get ready to extinguish fires. What’s happening there now is nothing compared to the hell that’s going to break loose when the genie has finished with the witch.” Geralt raised his head, caught Chireadan’s eye and looked away.

“Mr. Krepp,” he suddenly decided, “I need your help. It’s about the portal through which Dandilion appeared here. The portal still links the town hall to—” “There’s not even a trace of the portal anymore,” the priest said Coldly, pointing to the wall. “Can’t you see?” “A portal leaves a trace, even when invisible. A spell can stabilize such a trace. I’ll follow it.” “You must be mad. Even if a passage like that doesn’t tear you to pieces, what do you expect to gain by it? Do you want to find yourself in the middle of a cyclone?” “I asked if you can cast a spell which could stabilize the trace.”

“Spell?” The priest proudly raised his head. “I’m not a godless sorcerer! I don’t cast spells! My power comes from faith and prayer!” “Can you or can’t you?”

“I can.”

“Then get on with it, because time’s pressing on.”

“Geralt,” said Dandilion, “you’ve gone stark raving mad! Keep away from that bloody strangler!” “Silence, please,” said Krepp, “and gravity. I’m praying.”

“To hell with your prayers!” Neville hollered. “I’m off to gather the people. We’ve got to do something and not stand here gabbling! Gods, what a day! What a bloody day!” The witcher felt Chireadan touch his shoulder. He turned. The elf looked him in the eyes, then lowered his own.

“You’re going there because you have to, aren’t you?”

Geralt hesitated. He thought he smelled the scent of lilac and gooseberries.

“I think so,” he said reluctantly. “I do have to. I’m sorry, Chireadan—” “Don’t apologize. I know what you feel.”

“I doubt it. Because I don’t know myself.”

The elf smiled. The smile had little to do with joy. “That’s just it, Geralt. Precisely it.” Krepp pulled himself upright and took a deep breath. “Ready,” he said, pointing with pride at the barely visible outline on the wall. “But the portal is unsteady and won’t stay there for long. And there’s no way to be sure it won’t break. Before you step through, sir, examine your conscience. I can give you a blessing, but in order to forgive you your sins—” “—there’s no time,” Geralt finished the sentence for him. “I know, Mr. Krepp. There’s never enough time for it. Leave the chamber, all of you. If the portal explodes, it’ll burst your eardrums.” “I’ll stay,” said Krepp, when the door had closed behind Dandilion and the elf. He waved his hands in the air, creating a pulsating aura around himself. “I’ll spread some protection, just in case. And if the portal does burst…I’ll try and pull you out, witcher. What are eardrums to me? They grow back.” Geralt looked at him more kindly.

The priest smiled. “You’re a brave man,” he said. “You want to save her, don’t you? But bravery isn’t going to be of much use to you. Djinns are vengeful beings. The sorceress is lost. And if you go there, you’ll be lost, too. Examine your conscience.” “I have.” Geralt stood in front of the faintly glowing portal. “Mr. Krepp, sir?” “Yes.”

“That exorcism which made you so angry…What do the words mean?”

“Indeed, what a moment for quips and jokes—”

“Please, Mr. Krepp, sir.”

“Oh, well,” said the priest, hiding behind the mayor’s heavy oak table. “It’s your last wish, so I’ll tell you. It means…Hmm…Hmm…essentially…get out of here and go fuck yourself!” Geralt entered the nothingness, where cold stifled the laughter which was shaking him.

VIII

The portal, roaring and whirling like a hurricane, spat him out with a force that bruised his lungs. The witcher collapsed on the floor, panting and catching his breath with difficulty.

The floor shook. At first he thought he was trembling after his journey through the splitting hell of the portal, but he rapidly realized his mistake. The whole house was vibrating, trembling and creaking.

He looked around. He was not in the small room where he had last seen Yennefer and Dandilion but in the large communal hall of Errdil’s renovated tavern.

He saw her. She was kneeling between tables, bent over the magical sphere. The sphere was aflame with a strong, milky light, so bright, enough to shine red through her fingers. The light from the sphere illuminated a scene, flickering and swaying, but clear. Geralt saw the small room with a star and pentagram traced on the floor, blazing with white heat. He saw many-colored, creaking, fiery lines shooting from the pentagram and disappearing up over the roof toward the furious roar of the captured djinn.

Yennefer saw him, jumped up and raised her hand.

“No!” he shouted, “don’t do this! I want to help you!”

“Help?” She snorted. “You?”

“Me.”

“In spite of what I did to you?”

“In spite of it.”

“Interesting. But not important. I don’t need your help. Get out of here.” “No.”

“Get out of here!” she yelled, grimacing ominously. “It’s getting dangerous! The whole thing’s getting out of control; do you understand? I can’t master him. I don’t get it, but the scoundrel isn’t weakening at all! I caught him once he’d fulfilled the troubadour’s third wish and I should have him in the sphere by now. But he’s not getting any weaker! Dammit, it looks as if he’s getting stronger! But I’m still going to get the better of him. I’ll break—” “You won’t break him, Yennefer. He’ll kill you.”

“It’s not so easy to kill me—”

She broke off. The whole roof of the tavern suddenly flared up. The vision projected by the sphere dissolved in the brightness. A huge fiery rectangle appeared on the ceiling. The sorceress cursed as she lifted her hands, and sparks gushed from her fingers.

“Run, Geralt!”

“What’s happening, Yennefer?”

“He’s located me…” She groaned, flushing red with effort. “He wants to get at me. He’s creating his own portal to get in. He can’t break loose but he’ll get in by the portal. I can’t—I can’t stop him!” “Yennefer—”

“Don’t distract me! I’ve got to concentrate…Geralt, you’ve got to get out of here. I’ll open my portal, a way for you to escape. Be careful; it’ll be a random portal. I haven’t got time or strength for any other…I don’t know where you’ll end up…but you’ll be safe…Get ready—” A huge portal on the ceiling suddenly flared blindingly, expanded and grew deformed. Out of the nothingness appeared the shapeless mouth already known to the witcher, snapping its drooping lips and howling loudly enough to pierce his ears. Yennefer jumped, waved her arms and shouted an incantation. A net of light shot from her palm and fell on the djinn. It gave a roar and sprouted long paws which shot toward the sorceress’s throat like attacking cobras. Yennefer didn’t back away.

Geralt threw himself toward her, pushed her aside and sheltered her. The djinn, tangled in the magical light, sprang from the portal like a cork from a bottle and threw himself at them, opening his jaws. The witcher clenched his teeth and hit him with the Sign without any apparent effect. But the genie didn’t attack. He hung in the air just below the ceiling, swelled to an impressive size, goggled at Geralt with his pale eyes and roared. There was something in that roar, something like a command, an order. He didn’t understand what it was.

“This way!” shouted Yennefer, indicating the portal which she had conjured up oh the wall by the stairs. In comparison to the one created by the genie, the sorceress’s portal looked feeble, extremely inferior. “This way, Geralt! Run for it!” “Only with you!”

Yennefer, sweeping the air with her hands, was shouting incantations and the many-colored fetters showered sparks and creaked. The djinn whirled like the bumble-bee, pulling the bonds tight, then loosening them. Slowly but surely he was drawing closer to the sorceress. Yennefer did not back away.

The witcher leapt to her, deftly tripped her up, grabbed her by the waist with one hand and dug the other into her hair at the nape. Yennefer cursed nastily ‘’ and thumped him in the neck with her elbow. He didn’t let go of her. The penetrating smell of ozone, created by the curses, didn’t kill the smell of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt stilled the sorceress’s kicking legs and jumped, raising her straight up to the opalescently flickering nothingness of the lesser portal.

The portal which led into the unknown.

They flew out in a tight embrace, fell onto a marble floor and slid across it, knocking over an enormous candlestick and a table from which crystal goblets, platters of fruit and a huge bowl of crushed ice, seaweed and oysters showered down with a crash. Screams and squeals came from around the room.

They were lying in the very center of a ballroom, bright with candelabra. Richly clad gentlemen and ladies, sparkling with jewels, had stopped dancing and were watching them in stunned silence. The musicians in the gallery finished their piece in a cacophony which grated on the ears.

“You moron!” Yennefer yelled, trying to scratch out his eyes. “You bloody idiot! You stopped me! I nearly had him!” “You had shit-all!” he shouted back, furious. “I saved your life, you stupid witch!” She hissed like a furious cat; her palms showered sparks.

Geralt, turning his face away, caught her by both wrists and they rolled among the oysters, seaweed and crushed ice.

“Do you have an invitation?” A portly man with the golden chain of a chamberlain on his chest was looking at them with a haughty expression.

“Screw yourself!” screamed Yennefer, still trying to scratch Geralt’s eyes out.

“It’s a scandal,” the chamberlain said emphatically. “Verily, you’re exaggerating with this teleportation. I’m going to complain to the Council of Wizards. I’ll demand—” No one ever heard what the chamberlain would demand. Yennefer wrenched herself free, slapped the witcher in the ear with her open palm, kicked him forcefully in the shin and jumped into the fading portal in the wall.

Geralt threw himself after her, catching her hair and belt with a practiced move.

Yennefer, also having gained practice, landed him a blow with her elbow.

The sudden move split her dress at the armpit, revealing a shapely breast. An oyster flew from her torn dress.

They both fell into the nothingness of the portal. Geralt could still hear the chamberlain’s voice.

“Music! Play on! Nothing has happened. Please take no notice of that pitiful incident!” The witcher was convinced that with every successive journey through the portal, the risk of misfortune was multiplying and he wasn’t mistaken. They hit the target, Errdil’s tavern, but they materialized just under the ceiling. They fell, shattering the stair balustrade and, with a deafening crash, landed on the table. The table had the right not to withstand the blow, and it didn’t.

Yennefer found herself under the table. He was sure she had lost consciousness. He was mistaken.

She punched him in the eye and fired a volley of insults straight at him which would do credit to a dwarven undertaker—and they were renowned for their foul language. The curses were accompanied by furious, chaotic blows dealt blindly, randomly.

Geralt grabbed her by the hands and, to avoid being hit by her forehead, thrust his face into the sorceress’s cleavage which smelled of lilac, gooseberries and oysters.

“Let me go!” she screamed, kicking like a pony. “You idiot! Let go! The fetters are going to break any moment now. I’ve got to strengthen them or the djinn will escape!” He didn’t answer, although he wanted to. He grasped her even more tightly, trying to pin her down to the floor. Yennefer swore horribly, struggled, and with all her strength, kicked him in the crotch with her knee. Before he could catch his breath, she broke free and screamed an incantation. He felt a terrible force drag him from the ground and hurl him across the hall until, with a violence that near-stunned him, he slammed against a carved two-doored chest of drawers and shattered it completely.

IX

“What’s happening there?!” Dandilion, clinging to the wall, strained his neck, trying to see through the downpour. “Tell me what’s happening there, dammit!” “They’re fighting!” yelled an urchin, springing away from the tavern window as if he’d burned himself. His tattered friends also escaped, slapping the mud with their bare heels. “The sorcerer and the witch are fighting!” “Fighting?” Neville was surprised. “They’re fighting, and that shitty demon is ruining my town! Look, he’s knocked another chimney down. And damaged the brick-kiln! Hey, you get over there, quick! Gods, we’re lucky it’s raining or there’d be a fire like nobody’s business!” “This won’t last much longer,” Krepp said gloomily. “The magical light is weakening, the bonds will break at any moment. Mr. Neville! Order the people to move back! All hell’s going to break loose over there at any minute! There’ll be only splinters left of that house! Mr. Errdil, what are you laughing at? It’s your house. What makes you so amused?” “I had that wreck insured for a massive sum!”

“Does the policy cover magical and supernatural events?”

“Of course.”

“That’s wise, Mr. Elf. Very wise. Congratulations. Hey, you people, get to some shelter! Don’t get any closer, if you value your lives!” A deafening crash came from within Errdil’s house, and lightning flashed. The small crowd retreated, hiding behind the pillars.

“Why did Geralt go there?” groaned Dandilion. “What the hell for? Why did he insist on saving that witch? Why, dammit? Chireadan, do you understand?” The elf smiled sadly. “Yes, I do, Dandilion,” he said. “I do.”

X

Geralt leapt away from another blazing orange shaft which shot from the sorceress’s fingers. She was clearly tired, the shafts were weak and slow, and he avoided them with no great difficulty.

“Yennefer!” he shouted. “Calm down! Will you listen?! You won’t be able—” He didn’t finish. Thin red bolts of lightning spurted from the sorceress’s hands, reaching him in many places and wrapping him up thoroughly. His clothes hissed and started to smolder.

“I won’t be able to?” she said through her teeth, standing over him. “You’ll soon see what I’m capable of. It will suffice for you to lie there for a while and not get in my way.” “Get this off me!” he roared, struggling in the blazing spider’s web. “I’m burning, dammit!” “Lie there and don’t move,” she advised, panting heavily. “It only burns when you move…I can’t spare you any more time, witcher. We had a romp, but enough’s enough. I’ve got to take care of the djinn; he’s ready to run away—” “Run away?” Geralt screamed. “It’s you who should run away! That djinn…Yennefer, listen to me carefully. I’ve got to tell you the truth.” XI

The djinn gave a tug at the fetters, traced a circle, tightened the lines holding it, and swept the little tower off Beau Berrant’s house.

“What a roar he’s got!” Dandilion frowned, instinctively clasping his throat. “What a terrible roar! It looks as if he’s bloody furious!” “That’s because he is,” said Krepp. Chireadan glanced at him.

“What?”

“He’s furious,” repeated Krepp. “And I’m not surprised. I’d be furious too if I had to fulfill, to the letter, the first wish accidentally expressed by the witcher—” “How’s that?” shouted Dandilion. “Geralt? Wish?”

“He’s the one who held the seal which imprisoned the djinn. The djinn’s fulfilling his wishes. That’s why the witch can’t master it. But the witcher mustn’t tell her, even if he’s caught on to it by now. He shouldn’t tell her.” “Dammit,” muttered Chireadan. “I’m beginning to understand. The warder in the dungeon burst…” “That was the witcher’s second wish. He’s still got one left. The last one. But, gods help us, he shouldn’t reveal that to Yennefer!” XII

She stood motionless, leaning over him, paying no attention to the djinn struggling at its bonds above the tavern roof. The building shook, lime and splinters poured from the ceiling, furniture crept along the floor, shuddering spasmodically.

“So that’s how it is,” she hissed. “Congratulations. You deceived me. Not Dandilion, but you. That’s why the djinn’s fighting so hard! But I haven’t lost yet, Geralt. You underestimate me, and you underestimate my power. I’ve still got the djinn and you in my hand. You’ve still got one last wish, haven’t you? So make it. You’ll free the djinn and then I’ll bottle it.” “You haven’t got enough strength left, Yennefer.”

“You underestimate my strength. The wish, Geralt!”

“No, Yennefer. I can’t…The djinn might fulfill it, but it won’t spare you. It’ll kill you when it’s free. It’ll take its revenge on you…You won’t manage to catch it and you won’t manage to defend yourself against it. You’re weakened; you can barely stand. You’ll die, Yennefer.” “That’s my risk!” she shouted, enraged. “What’s it to you what happens to me? Think rather what the djinn can give you! You’ve still got one wish! You can ask what you like! Make use of it! Use it, witcher! You can have anything! Anything!” XIII

“Are they both going to die?” wailed Dandilion. “How come? Krepp, why? After all, the witcher—Why, by all perfidious and unexpected plagues, isn’t he escaping? Why? What’s keeping him? Why doesn’t he leave that bloody witch to her fate and run away? It’s senseless!” “Absolutely senseless,” repeated Chireadan bitterly. “Absolutely.”

“It’s suicide. And plain idiocy!”

“It’s his job, after all,” interrupted Neville. “The witcher’s saving my town. May the gods be my witness—if he defeats the witch and chases the demon away, I’ll reward him handsomely…” Dandilion snatched the hat decorated with a heron’s feather from his head, spat into it, threw it in the mud and trampled on it, spitting out words in various languages as he did.

“But he’s…” he groaned suddenly, “still got one wish in reserve! He could save both her and himself! Mr. Krepp!” “It’s not that simple,” the priest pondered. “But if…If he expressed the right wish…If he somehow tied his fate to the fate…No, I don’t think it would occur to him. And it’s probably better that it doesn’t.” XIV

“The wish, Geralt! Hurry up! What do you desire? Immortality? Riches? Fame? Power? Might? Privileges? Hurry, we haven’t any time!” He was silent. “Humanity,” she said suddenly, smiling nastily. “I’ve guessed, haven’t I? That’s what you want; that’s what you dream of! Of release, of the freedom to be who you want, not who you have to be. The djinn will fulfill that wish, Geralt. Just say it.” He stayed silent.

She stood over him in the flickering radiance of the wizard’s sphere, in the glow of magic, amidst the flashes of rays restraining the djinn, streaming hair and eyes blazing violet, erect, slender, dark, terrible… And beautiful.

All of a sudden she leaned over and looked him in the eyes. He caught the scent of lilac and gooseberries.

“You’re not saying anything,” she hissed. “So what is it you desire, witcher? What is your most hidden dream? Is it that you don’t know or you can’t decide? Look for it within yourself, look deeply and carefully because, I swear by the Force, you won’t get another chance like this!” But he suddenly knew the truth. He knew it. He knew what she used to be. What she remembered, what she couldn’t forget, what she lived with. Who she really was before she had become a sorceress.

Her cold, penetrating, angry and wise eyes were those of a hunchback.

He was horrified. No, not of the truth. He was horrified that she would read his thoughts, find out what he had guessed. That she would never forgive him for it. He deadened that thought within himself, killed it, threw it from his memory forever, without trace, feeling, as he did so, enormous relief. Feeling that— The ceiling cracked open. The djinn, entangled in the net of the now fading rays, tumbled right on top of them, roaring, and in that roar were triumph and murder lust. Yennefer leapt to meet him. Light beamed from her hands. Very feeble light.

The djinn opened his mouth and stretched his paws toward her.

The witcher suddenly understood what it was he wanted.

And he made his wish.

XV

The house exploded. Bricks, beams and planks flew up in a cloud of smoke and sparks. The djinn spurted from the dust-storm, as huge as a barn. Roaring and choking with triumphant laughter, the Air genie, free now, not tied to anyone’s will, traced three circles above the town, tore the spire from the town hall, soared into the sky and vanished.

“It’s escaped! It’s escaped!” called Krepp. “The witcher’s had his way! The genie has flown away! It won’t be a threat to anyone anymore!” “Ah,” said Errdil with genuine rapture, “what a wonderful ruin!”

“Dammit, dammit!” hollered Dandilion, huddled behind the wall. “It’s shattered the entire house! Nobody could survive that! Nobody, I tell you!” “The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, has sacrificed himself for the town,” mayor Neville said ceremoniously. “We won’t forget him. We’ll revere him. We’ll think of a statue…” Dandilion shook a piece of wicker matting bound with clay from his shoulder, brushed his jerkin free of lumps of rain-dampened plaster, looked at the mayor and, in a few well-chosen words, expressed his opinion about sacrifice, reverence, memory and all the statues in the world.

XVI

Geralt looked around. Water was slowly dripping from the hole in the ceiling. There were heaps of rubble and stacks of timber all around. By a strange coincidence, the place where they lay was completely clear. Not one plank or one brick had fallen on them. It was as if they were being protected by an invisible shield.

Yennefer, slightly flushed, knelt by him, resting her hands on her knees.

“Witcher.” She cleared her throat. “Are you dead?”

“No.” Geralt wiped the dust from his face and hissed.

Slowly, Yennefer touched his wrist and delicately ran her fingers along his palm. “I burnt you—” “It’s nothing. A few blisters—”

“I’m sorry. You know, the djinn’s escaped. For good.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not much.”

“Good. Help me up, please.”

“Wait,” she whispered. “That wish of yours…I heard what you wished for. I was astounded, simply astounded. I’d have expected anything but to…What made you do it, Geralt? Why…Why me?” “Don’t you know?”

She leaned over him, touched him. He felt her hair, smelling of lilac and gooseberries, brush his face and he suddenly knew that he’d never forget that scent, that soft touch, knew that he’d never be able to compare it to any other scent or touch. Yennefer kissed him and he understood that he’d never desire any lips other than hers, so soft and moist, sweet with lipstick. He knew that, from that moment, only she would exist, her neck, shoulders and breasts freed from her black dress, her delicate, cool skin, which couldn’t be compared to any other he had ever touched. He gazed into her violet eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, eyes which he feared would become… Everything. He knew.

“Your wish,” she whispered, her lips very near his ear. “I don’t know whether such a wish can ever be fulfilled. I don’t know whether there’s such a Force in Nature that could fulfill such a wish. But if there is, then you’ve condemned yourself. Condemned yourself to me.” He interrupted her with a kiss, an embrace, a touch, caresses and then with everything, his whole being, his every thought, his only thought, everything, everything, everything. They broke the silence with sighs and the rustle of clothing strewn on the floor. They broke the silence very gently, lazily, and they were considerate and very thorough. They were caring and tender and, although neither quite knew what caring and tenderness were, they succeeded because they very much wanted to. And they were in no hurry whatsoever. The whole world had ceased to exist for a brief moment, but to them, it seemed like a whole eternity.

And then the world started to exist again; but it existed very differently.

“Geralt?”

“Mmm?”

“What now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nor do I. Because, you see, I…I don’t know whether it was worth condemning yourself to me. I don’t know how—Wait, what are you doing…? I wanted to tell you—” “Yennefer…Yen.”

“Yen,” she repeated, giving in to him completely. “Nobody’s ever called me that. Say it again.” “Yen.”

“Geralt.”

XVII

It had stopped raining. A rainbow appeared over Rinde and cut the sky with a broken, colored arc. It looked as if it grew straight from the tavern’s ruined roof.

“By all the gods,” muttered Dandilion, “what silence…They’re dead, I tell you. Either they’ve killed each other or my djinn’s finished them off.” “We should go and see,” said Vratimir, wiping his brow with his crumpled hat. “They might be wounded. Should I call a doctor?” “An undertaker, more like it,” said Krepp. “I know that witch, and that witcher’s got the devil in his eyes too. There’s no two ways about it; we’ve got to start digging two pits in the cemetery. I’d advise sticking an aspen stake into that Yennefer before burying her.” “What silence,” repeated Dandilion. “Beams were flying all over the place a moment ago and now it’s as quiet as a grave.” They approached the tavern ruins very cautiously and slowly.

“Let the carpenter get the coffins ready,” said Krepp. “Tell the carpenter—” “Quiet,” interrupted Errdil. “I heard something. What was it, Chireadan?” The elf brushed the hair off his pointed ear and tilted his head.

“I’m not sure…Let’s get closer.”

“Yennefer’s alive,” said Dandilion suddenly, straining his musical ear. “I heard her moan. There, she moaned again!” “Uhuh,” confirmed Errdil. “I heard it, too. She moaned. She must really be suffering. Chireadan, where are you going? Careful!” The elf backed away from the shattered window through which he had carefully peeped.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said quietly. “Let’s not disturb them.” “They’re both alive? Chireadan? What are they doing?”

“Let’s get out of here,” repeated the elf. “Let’s leave them alone for a bit. Let them stay there, Yennefer, Geralt and his last wish. Let’s wait in a tavern; they’ll join us before long. Both of them.” “What are they doing?” Dandilion was curious. “Tell me, dammit!”

The elf smiled. Very, very sadly. “I don’t like grand words,” he said. “And it’s impossible to give it a name without using grand words.”