The Witcher

THE SWORD OF DESTINY III

“Ciri?”

“Hum?”

The little girl sniffled, rustling the branches on which she rested.

“You're not cold?”

“No,” she sighed. “Today, it's good. Yesterday... Yesterday I was horribly frozen... Oh, by the gods!”

“Strange,” said Braenn, untying the laces of her long and supple boots. “While skinny, she has traveled a vast distance despite the sentinels, the swamps and the thickets. Strong, healthy, courageous. She will be useful to us, indeed... most useful.”

Geralt cast an eye quickly over the dryad and her eyes shining in the darkness. Braenn leaned her back against the tree and untied her scarf, freeing her hair with a brisk shake of her head.

“She was found in Brokilone,” she murmured, anticipating his comment. “She is ours, Gwynbleidd. We go to Duén Canell.”

“Madame Eithné will decide,” he replied bitterly.

But he knew that Braenn was right.

Pity, he thought, watching the little girl squirm on her cushion of greenery. A girl so resolute. Where have I seen her before? No matter. It's a real pity. The world is so large and so beautiful. Until the end of her life, her world will be limited to Brokilone. That end might even be soon: until the day she sinks into the ferns, with a cry and the hiss of an arrow, fighting an absurd war for mastery of the forest on the side of those who are to blame for her loss. For those who... yes, sooner or later.

“Ciri?”

“Yes?”

“Where do your parents live?”

“I have no parents,” she said, sniffling. “They drowned in the sea when I was little.

Yes, he thought, that would explain no small number of things. A child of a dead prince. Who knows, maybe the third daughter in a family with four boys already. Graced with a noble title that is in fact less important than that of a chamberlain or squire. A little thing with ashen hair and green eyes who meanders through the court and therefore must be disposed of as soon as possible by finding a husband. As soon as possible, before she becomes a little woman, a threat of scandal, of a misalliance or of the i****t that the promiscuity of a communal bedroom in the castle can only favor...

The flight of the little girl did not surprise the witcher. He had already met a number of young princesses, even of royal blood, taken in by traveling theater troupes and happy to have escaped from a king who, though decrepit, was always eager for descendants. He had encountered the sons of kings, preferring the uncertain life of a mercenary rather than marriage to a lame and syphilitic princess chosen by his father for an inheritance as questionable as it was miserable, but guaranteeing an alliance and the sustainability of the dynasty.

He lay down next to the girl and covered her with his cloak.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured. “Go to sleep, little orphan.” 

“Oh, yes?” she muttered. “I am a princess, and not an orphan. I have a grandmother.

She is queen, what do you think? When I tell her that you wanted to hit me with a belt, my grandmother will order your head chopped off, you'll see.”

“But that's monstrous, Ciri! Have mercy.” 

“You'll see!”

“You are such a nice little girl. Chopping off heads, this is terribly wrong. You won't say anything, will you?”

“I'll tell her everything.”

“Ciri...”

“I'll tell everything, everything, everything. You're afraid, huh?”

“Yes, very. You know, Ciri, that when you cut off someone's head, he can die?”

“Are you mocking me?”

“How could I dare?”

“You will see for yourself, then! My grandmother does not joke. When she puts her foot down, the greatest warriors and knights kneel before her. I saw it myself. And if one of them disobeys, squeak, he's beheaded.”

“That's awful, Ciri.”

“How?”

“It's surely your head that they'll take off.”

“My head?”

“Of course. It's your grandmother, the queen, who arranged your marriage with Kistrin and sent you to Verden, to the castle of Nastrog. You have disobeyed. When you come back... Squeak! No more head.”

The little girl remained silent. She had even stopped fidgeting. He heard the click of her tongue while she bit her lower lip. She sniffled:

“It's not true! Grandmother wouldn't let anyone cut off my head, because... she's my grandmother, isn't she? At most, I would get...”

“Oh, yes?” Geralt laughed. “Your grandmother doesn't joke around, isn't that right? You have already had beatings?”

Ciri fixed him with an expression full of anger.

“You know what?” he said. “We'll tell your grandmother that I have already beaten you. No-one can be punished twice for the same offense. What do you think?”

“That you're stupid.” Ciri rose up on her elbows, rustling the branches. “When grandmother learns that you've beaten me, she'll cut off your head, as simple as that!”

“Even though, as you say, there's so little in my head?”

The little girl didn't respond. She sniffed once more.

“Geralt...”

“What is it, Ciri?”

“Grandma knows that I'm obligated to come back. I don't have to be a princess or even the wife of that i***t Kistrin. I must come back, that's all.”

You are obligated, he thought. Unfortunately, this depends on neither you nor your grandmother. It will depend on the mood of old Eithné and on my ability to convince her.

“Grandmother knows,” continued Ciri. “Because I... Geralt, swear to me that you won't repeat this to anyone. It's a horrible secret. Terrible, I tell you. Swear.”

“I swear.”

“I'll tell you. My mama was a sorceress, you know. And my papa was cursed. That's what one of my nannies told me, and when grandmother learned, it was a terrible scene. Because I'm predestined, you know?”

“For what?”

“I don't know,” she responded, preoccupied. “But I'm predestined. That's what my nanny told me. And grandmother said that she will not allow it, that she'd rather all the cas... the castles fall in ruin. You understand? And my nanny said that nothing could counter predestination. Ah! And then my nanny started crying and grandmother started screaming. You see? I'm predestined. I'll never be married to that i***t Kistrin. Geralt?” 

“Sleep,” Geralt said, his jaw dropping in a yawn. “Sleep, Ciri.”

“Won't you tell me a story?”

“What?”

“Tell me a story,” she grumbled. “Am I expected to go to sleep without hearing a story? It's impossible.”

“I don't know, damn it, I don't know a*********s. Sleep.”

“Don't lie. You know. When you were small, no-one told you a*********s? What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing. I was just reminded of something.”

“Ah! You see! Go on, tell it.”

“What?”

“A children's story.”

He smiled again and placed his hands beneath his neck, looking at the stars that twinkled between the branches just above their heads.

“Once there was... a cat,” he began. “An ordinary cat, with stripes, who was hunting mice. One day, the cat went alone on a long walk through a dark, terrible forest. He walked and walked and walked...”

“Don't think that I'll fall asleep before he arrives,” she murmured, pressing against him.”

“Quiet, little pest. He walks and walks and meets a fox. A red fox.”

Braenn sighed, lying down on the other side of the witcher. She hugged him too, gently.

“And then?” Ciri sniffed. “Tell the rest.”

“The fox looks at the cat. He asks: 'Who are you?' The cat replies: 'I am a cat.' The fox retorts: 'Ah! And you are not afraid, you cat, to walk alone in the forest? What if the king decides to go hunting? What will you do with the dogs and hunters on their horses? I tell you, cat, the hunt is a terrible thing for the likes of you and I. You have a fur coat, I have one too.

The hunters are without pity for us, because they have fiancees and mistresses whose hands and necks shiver: they turn us into stoles and muffs for those whores.”

“What are those, muffs?” asked Ciri.

“Don't interrupt my story.

“The fox then continues: 'I, dear cat, know how to escape them. I have a thousand and two hundred eighty-six methods: I am cunning. And you, dear cat, how many tricks do you possess against the hunters?”

“Oh! What a pretty story,” Ciri enthused, snuggling even closer against the witcher.

“Tell me... How did the cat respond?”

“Yes,” Braenn murmured from the other side. “How did he respond?”

The witcher turned his head. The dryad's eyes sparkled. Her tongue was slightly parting her lips. Evidently, he thought, young dryads are fond of stories. Just like young witchers: they are rarely told fictional stories. Young dryads fall asleep to the rustling trees; young witchers to the ache of their muscles. Our eyes shone, like Braenn's, when we listened to Vesemir's stories, there at Kaer Morhen. It was a long time ago... so long...

“And then?” Ciri prompted impatiently. “What happened next?”

“The cat replies: 'I, dear fox, do not have multiple ways, but only one: Hop! I climb up a tree. This should be sufficient, I believe?' The fox smiles: 'Well then! Dear cat, you're nothing but a fool. Turn tail and run from here, because you will perish if the hunters track you.'

“Suddenly, without warning, with neither transition nor delay, the hunters emerge from the bushes: on top of the cat and the fox!”

“Oh!” Ciri whimpered. 

The dryad shook violently.

“Quiet!”

“They throw themselves upon them then, shouting: 'Forward! Skin their hides! For the muffs, the muffs!' They unleash the dogs upon the cat and the fox. And the cat, hop! climbs up the tree as cats do. Right to the top. And the dogs, snap! seize the fox. Even before the red-furred one could make use of one of his cunning routes, he was transformed into a lady's stole. The cat meows from the top of the tree, defying the hunters. They cannot reach him, because the tree is too high. They wait at the bottom, swearing against the gods of the earth, but leave empty-handed. The cat then descends the tree and goes quietly home.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. The story is over.”

“And the moral? Stories always have a moral, don't they?”

“What?” Braenn asked, shaking harder against Geralt. “What is that, a moral?”

“Good stories always have a moral, bad ones don't,” confirmed Ciri, sure of herself.

“That one was good,” the dryad retorted. “Each received what he deserved. We must climb up to the top of the tree from the yghern, sickly little one, like the proud feline. Without hesitation: the top of the tree, at once, and wait with wisdom. Survive. Without resignation.”

Geralt chuckled.

“Weren't there any trees in the grounds of Castle Nastrog, Ciri? Instead of coming to Brokilone, you could have climbed to the top and waited for Kistrin to lose interest in the wedding.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I can't stand you.”

“That's awful, Ciri, you've touched me right in the heart.”

“I know,” she nodded, sniffing, and then pressed close against him.

“Sleep well, Ciri,” he murmured, breathing in the pleasant smell of feathers. “Sleep well. Good night, Braenn.”

“Deárme, Gwynbleidd.”