The Witcher

SOMETHING MORE VI

He climbed the hill very slowly, carefully, attentive to the work of tendons and muscles after their magical healing. Despite being completely healed, the wound still required his attention, and he took care not to put his full weight on the leg. It was hot. The smell of the grass intoxicated him and clouded his mind, but it was pleasant.

The obelisk had not been installed in the center of the plateau at the top of the hill, but further down, behind a row of sharp stones. If Geralt had come before sunset, the shadow cast on the standing stone by the row of stones would accurately represent the perimeter and indicate the direction in which each sorcerer's face was turned during the battle. He looked in each direction, over the endless rolling fields. If there were any bones left he was certain - they were covered by the abundant grass. A hawk circled in the distance, hovering serenely, with wings outstretched: the only movement in a landscape petrified by the heat wave. 

The base of the obelisk was large. To encircle it would require at least four or five people with arms outstretched. It was obvious that it would have been impossible to transport it so far without resorting to magic. The face of the standing stone that faced the row of stones had been meticulously polished.

On it had been engraved in runic characters the names of the fourteen deceased.

He appproached it slowly. Yurga, indeed, was right. At the foot of the obelisk, common flowers, wildflowers, poppies, lupines, forget-me-nots, had been placed.

Triss Merigold, chestnut hair, cheerful, ready to burst into laughter for no reason at all, like a child. He liked her. It had been mutual.

Lawdbor of Murivel, with whom Geralt had avoided a fight in the city of Vizima, on a day when he had caught the witcher in the act of manipulating dice with a discreet telekinesis.

Lytta Neyd, alias Coral. She had been dubbed with nickname because of the color of the cream she applied to her lips. She had once spoken ill of Geralt to the King Belohun, who then imprisoned him for a week in a dungeon. As soon as he was released, he went to find her to ask for her reasons and had found himself in bed with the beautiful woman, without knowing how, for another week.

Gorazd the Elder who had wanted to pay him 100 marks in exchange for the opportunity to examine his eyes and even 1,000 for the chance to dissect him, “not necessarily today,” he had clarified.

He waited three more years.

Geralt heard from behind him a quiet rustle. He turned.

She was barefoot, dressed in a simple linen dress. Long fair hair tumbled free over her shoulders. A daisy-chain crown adorned her brow.

“Greetings to you,” he said.

Without answering, she looked at him with eyes that were blue and cold.

Geralt noticed that she was not tanned. It was strange, because the skin of the country girls, scorched by the sun, was ordinarily dark by the end of the summer. Her face and what was visible of her shoulders was missing the golden tint.

“You've brought flowers?”

She smiled and lowered her eyelids. He felt a chill set in. She passed by him without a word and knelt at the foot of the monument, touching the stone with her hand.

“I don't bring flowers,” she said, lifting her head. “Those that have been brought here are for me.”

He watched her carefully. She knelt, her body hiding the last name engraved on the stone. The girl emitted a glow of light against the base of the dark rock.

“Who are you?” he asked slowly.

“You do not know?”

I know, he thought, looking at the icy blue of her eyes. Yes, I think that I know.

Geralt felt calm. He could not be otherwise. Not now.

“I have always been curious to see you, madam.”

“You don't have to give me such a title,” she replied coldly. “We have known each other for years, haven't we?”

“We know each other,” he agreed. “They say that you follow in my steps.”

“I go my own way. But you, you had never, until just now, looked behind you. You turned back today for the first time.”

Geralt remained silent. Tired, he had nothing to say.

“How... How will it happen?” he asked her at last, coldly and without emotion.

“I will take you by the hand,” she replied, looking him straight in the eye. “I will take you by the hand and lead you across the meadow, through a cold and wet fog.” 

“And after? What is there beyond the fog?”

“Nothing,” she replied, smiling. “After that, there is nothing.”

“You have followed me step by step,” he said, “cutting down the ones in my path. Why? So that I would be alone, isn't that right? And finally begin to know fear? I'll tell you the truth. You have always frightened me. I didn't turn back for fear of seeing you behind me. I was always afraid. I have lived my life in fear, until today...”

“Until today?”

“Yes. We stand face to face, but I don't feel any anxiety. In taking everything from me, you have also stripped me of fear.”

“Why are your eyes, then, filled with terror, Geralt of Rivia? Your hands shake. You are pale. Why? Are you afraid to read the fourteenth name engraved on the obelisk? If you like, I can tell you the name.”

“No, you don't need to. I know whose name it is. The circle closes. The snake bites his own tail. So be it. You and your name. The flowers. For you and for me. The fourteenth name engraved at the base, the name that I gave my heart to by night and by the light of the sun, in frost, drought, and rain. No, I will not speak it now.”

“But yes, speak it.”

“Yennefer... Yennefer de Vengerberg.”

“But the flowers are for me.”

“End this,” he managed to say. “Take... take my hand.”

She stood and approached him. Geralt felt a chill, hard and penetrating.

“Not today,” she replied. “Another day, yes. But not today.”

“You've taken everything from me...”

“No,” she interrupted. “Me, I take nothing. I only take by the hand. So that no-one must be alone and lost in the fog... Goodbye, Geralt of Rivia. Some other day.”

The witcher did not respond. She turned slowly and then disappeared into the fog that was drowning the summit of the hill where everything was disappearing: into that damp and white haze vanished the obelisk, the flowers placed at its base and the fourteen engraved names. Soon there was nothing left but the fog and the grass wet with brilliant droplets under his feet, a grass whose sweet, heavy aroma created a doleful atmosphere, a will to forget and collapse from fatigue...

“Master Geralt! What is it? Were you asleep? I warned you that you could still weaken yourself. Why did you climb to the summit?”

“I was asleep,” he groaned, wiping his face with his hand. “I was asleep, by the plague... It's nothing, Yurga, it's because of this heat...”

“Yes, you have a devil of a fever... We must continue on our way, my lord. Come, I'll help you down the slope.”

“I have nothing...”

“Nothing, nothing. I'm curious to know the reason for your staggering. By the plague, why did you climb the hill in this heat? You wanted to read all their names?”

“Nothing... Yurga... you really remember all of the names inscribed on the monument?”

“Of course.”

“I'll test your memory... The last. The fourteenth. What is it?”

“But you're a real skeptic. Don't you believe anything? You want to verify that I'm not lying? I told you that even children know the names. The last, you say? Yes, the last, it's Yol Grethen of Carreras. You know her, perhaps?”

“No,” he replied. “I don't know her.”