The Voice Of Reason 4

THE VOICE OF REASON 4

“Let’s talk, Iola.

“I need this conversation. They say silence is golden. Maybe it is, although I’m not sure it’s worth that much. It has its price certainly; you have to pay for it.

“It’s easier for you. Yes it is, don’t deny it. You’re silent through choice; you’ve made it a sacrifice to your goddess. I don’t believe in Melitele, don’t believe in the existence of other gods either, but I respect your choice, your sacrifice. Your belief. Because your faith and sacrifice, the price you’re paying for your silence, will make you a better, a greater being. Or, at least, it could. But my faithlessness can do nothing. It’s powerless.

“You ask what I believe in, in that case.

“I believe in the sword.

“As you can see, I carry two. Every witcher does. It’s said, spitefully, the silver one is for monsters and the iron for humans. But that’s wrong. As there are monsters which can be struck down only with a silver blade, so there are those for whom iron is lethal. And, Iola, not just any iron, it must come from a meteorite. What is a meteorite, you ask? It’s a falling star. You must have seen them—short, luminous streaks in the night. You’ve probably made a wish on one. Perhaps it was one more reason for you to believe in the gods. For me, a meteorite is nothing more than a bit of metal, primed by the sun and its fall, metal to make swords.

“Yes, of course you can take my sword. Feel how light it—No! Don’t touch the edge; you’ll cut yourself. It’s sharper than a razor. It has to be.

“I train in every spare moment. I don’t dare lose my skill. I’ve come here—this furthest corner of the temple garden—to limber up, to rid my muscles of that hideous, loathsome numbness which has come over me, this coldness flowing through me. And you found me here. Funny, for a few days I was trying to find you. I wanted— “I need to talk, Iola. Let’s sit down for a moment.

“You don’t know me at all, do you?

“I’m called Geralt. Geralt of—No. Only Geralt. Geralt of nowhere. I’m a witcher.

“My home is Kaer Morhen, Witcher’s Settlement. It’s…It was a fortress. Not much remains of it.

“Kaer Morhen…That’s where the likes of me were produced. It’s not done anymore; no one lives in Kaer Morhen now. No one but Vesemir. Who’s Vesemir? My father. Why are you so surprised? What’s so strange about it? Everyone’s got a father, and mine is Vesemir. And so what if he’s not my real father? I didn’t know him, or my mother. I don’t even know if they’re still alive, and I don’t much care.

“Yes, Kaer Morhen. I underwent the usual mutation there, through the Trial of Grasses, and then hormones, herbs, viral infections. And then through them all again. And again, to the bitter end. Apparently, I took the changes unusually well; I was only ill briefly. I was considered to be an exceptionally resilient brat…and was chosen for more complicated experiments as a result. They were worse. Much worse. But, as you see, I survived. The only one to live out of all those chosen for further trials. My hair’s been white ever since. Total loss of pigmentation. A side effect, as they say. A trifle.

“Then they taught me various things until the day when I left Kaer Morhen and took to the road. I’d earned my medallion, the Sign of the Wolf’s School. I had two swords: silver and iron, and my conviction, enthusiasm, incentive and…faith. Faith that I was needed in a world full of monsters and beasts, to protect the innocent. As I left Kaer Morhen, I dreamed of meeting my first monster. I couldn’t wait to stand eye to eye with him. And the moment arrived.

“My first monster, Iola, was bald and had exceptionally rotten teeth. I came across him on the highway where, with some fellow monsters, deserters, he’d stopped a peasant’s cart and pulled out a little girl, maybe thirteen years old. His companions held her father while the bald man tore off her dress, yelling it was time for her to meet a real man. I rode up and said the time had come for him, too—I thought I was very witty. The bald monster released the girl and threw himself at me with an axe. He was slow but tough. I hit him twice—not clean cuts, but spectacular, and only then did he fall. His gang ran away when they saw what a witcher’s sword could do to a man….

“Am I boring you, Iola?

“I need this. I really do need it.

“Where was I? My first noble deed. You see, they’d told me again and again in Kaer Morhen not to get involved in such incidents, not to play at being knight errant or uphold the law. Not to show off, but to work for money. And I joined this fight like an idiot, not fifty miles from the mountains. And do you know why? I wanted the girl, sobbing with gratitude, to kiss her savior on the hands, and her father to thank me on his knees. In reality her father fled with his attackers, and the girl, drenched in the bald man’s blood, threw up, became hysterical and fainted in fear when I approached her. Since then, I’ve only very rarely interfered in such matters.

“I did my job. I quickly learned how. I’d ride up to village enclosures or town pickets and wait. If they spat, cursed and threw stones, I rode away. If someone came out to give me a commission, I’d carry it out.

“I visited towns and fortresses. I looked for proclamations nailed to posts at the crossroads. I looked for the words ‘Witcher urgently needed.’ And then there’d be a sacred site, a dungeon, necropolis or ruins, forest ravine or grotto hidden in the mountains, full of bones and stinking carcasses. Some creature which lived to kill, out of hunger, for pleasure, or invoked by some sick will. A manticore, wyvern, fogler, aeschna, ilyocoris, chimera, leshy, vampire, ghoul, graveir, werewolf, giant scorpion, striga, black annis, kikimora, vypper…so many I’ve killed. There’d be a dance in the dark and a slash of the sword, and fear and distaste in the eyes of my employer afterward.

“Mistakes? Of course I’ve made them. But I keep to my principles. No, not the code. Although I have at times hidden behind a code. People like that. Those who follow a code are often respected and held in high esteem. But no one’s ever compiled a witcher’s code. I invented mine. Just like that. And keep to it. Always— “Not always.

“There have been situations where it seemed there wasn’t any room for doubt. When I should say to myself, ‘What do I care? It’s nothing to do with me. I’m a witcher.’ When I should listen to the voice of reason. To listen to my instinct, even if it’s fear, if not to what my experience dictates.

“I should have listened to the voice of reason that time…

“I didn’t.

“I thought I was choosing the lesser evil. I chose the lesser evil. Lesser evil! I’m Geralt! Witcher…I’m the Butcher of Blaviken— “Don’t touch me! It might…You might see…and I don’t want you to. I don’t want to know. I know my fate whirls about me like water in a weir. It’s hard on my heels, following my tracks, but I never look back.

“A loop? Yes, that’s what Nenneke sensed. What tempted me, I wonder, in Cintra? How could I have taken such a risk so foolishly—?

“No, no, no. I never look back. I’ll never return to Cintra. I’ll avoid it like the plague. I’ll never go back there.

“Heh, if my calculations are correct, that child would have been born in May, sometime around the feast of Belleteyn. If that’s true, it’s an interesting coincidence. Because Yennefer was also born on Belleteyn’s… “Enough of this, we should go. It’s already dusk.

“Thank you for talking to me. Thank you, Iola.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.

“Quite fine.”