The Witcher

SOMETHING MORE III

“Don't get up, lord. Your dressing needs to be changed, because the wound is dirty and your leg is horribly swollen. By the gods, it's awful... We need to find a healer as soon as possible...”

“To hell with healers!” groaned the witcher. “Give me my chest, Yurga. Yes, this flask. Pour it directly on the wound. Oh! By the plague and cholera! It's nothing, add more...

Oh! That's good. Dress it and cover me...”

“It's swollen, lord, the whole thigh... And you're stricken with fever...”

“To hell with the fever... Yurga?”

“Yes, lord?”

“I forgot to thank you...”

“I'm not the one who should be thanked, lord, but you. It's you who saved my life.

You have been injured in defending me. And me? What have I done? I only tended to an injured and unconscious man. I carried him in my cart and kept him from perishing. It's an ordinary thing, master witcher.”

“Not so ordinary as that, Yurga. I have been abandoned in similar situations, like a dog...”

The merchant was silent, bowing his head.

“Yes... it happens. The world around us is horrible,” he murmured at last. “But that's not a reason for all of us to behave so execrably. Good is necessary. That's what my father taught me and that's what I will teach my sons.”

The witcher fell silent. He watched the tree branches that hung over the road and disappeared with the movement of the cart. His thigh came back to life. The pain was gone.

“Where are we?”

“We have just forded the Trava river. We are actually in the woods of Alkekenge. It's no longer Temeria, but Sodden. You were sleeping when we crossed the border and when customs officers searched the cart. I must tell you that they were surprised to find you there. But the oldest one knew you and they allowed us to go through.”

“He knew me?”

“Yes, without a doubt. He called you Geralt. That's what he said: Geralt of Rivia. Isn't that your name?”

“So...”

“He promised to send someone ahead with word that a healer was needed. I gave him a little something so that he doesn't forget.”

“I thank you, Yurga.”

“No, lord. I already said: it's I who thank you. And that's not all. I am still in your debt. We agreed... What's happening, lord? Are you losing your strength?”

“Yurga, give me the flask with the green seal...”

“Lord, you're going to go back... You cried out so terribly in your sleep...”

“I need it, Yurga...”

“As you wish. Wait while I pour it into a goblet... By the gods, we need a healer, as soon as possible, because otherwise...”

The witcher turned his head. He heard the cries of children playing in the ditch, drained, next to the castle gardens. There were a dozen of them. The kids made a devil of a racket, shouting to each others in their little falsettos, shrill and excited. They ran up and down the bottom of the ditch, resembling a school of small fish ceaselessly changing direction, but managing to stay together. As is always the case in these situations, a smaller one, out of breath, was trying to catch up with the g**g of older ones, thin as scarecrows, who wrestled and shouted.

“There are a lot of them,” the witcher remarked.

Mousesack gave him a forced smile, pulling on his beard and shrugging.

“Yes, a lot.”

“And one of them... Which one of these boys is the famous surprise?”

“I can't, Geralt...”

“Calanthe?”

“Of course. You don't believe, I hope, that she would give you a child so easily? You know that, don't you? She is a woman of iron. I'll tell you something that I should not admit. In the hope that you understand... I'm also counting on you not to betray me to her.”

“Speak.”

“When the child was born six years ago, she called for me and ordered me to find you. To kill you.”

“You refused.”

“We refuse nothing to Calanthe,” Mousesack replied seriously, looking him right in the eye. “I was ready to set out before she called me back. She revoked the order without comment. Be careful when you talk to her.”

“I will be. Mousesack, tell me: what happened to Duny and Pavetta?”

“They were sailing to Skellig from Cintra when a storm surprised them. Nothing was recovered of the boat, not even some boards. Geralt... the fact that the child was not aboard with them is maddeningly strange. Incomprehensible. They had to take it with them on the ship, but they changed their minds at the last moment. No-one knows why. Pavetta was never apart from...”

“How did Calanthe handle this misfortune?”

“How do you think?”

“I see.”

Hurling expletives, the children climbed like a band of goblins to the top of the ditch and immediately disappeared. Geralt noticed a little girl, just as thin and noisy as the boys, but with a plait of fair hair, keeping her distance from the head of the small group. With a savage cry, the little band slipped down the steep slope of the ditch again. At least half of them, the girl included, fell on their backsides. The youngest, still unable to catch up to the others, somersaulted and fell to the bottom where he began to bawl hot tears and rub his scraped knee. The other boys stood by, railing at him and laughing before resuming their course. The little girl knelt next to the boy, took him in her arms and dried his eyes, wiping the dust and dirt from a face grimacing in pain.

“Come on, Geralt. The queen awaits.”

“So be it, Mousesack.”

Calanthe was sitting on a wooden bench with a backrest, which was suspended by chains from one of the main branches of an enormous linden tree. It seemed that she was napping, save for the small kick of her foot she gave from time to time to revive the swing.

Three young women remained at her side. One was sitting on the grass near the swing. Her dress fanned over the grass and formed a white spot on the green, like a patch of snow. The other two were arguing further away, delicately picking strawberries.

“Madam,” said Mousesack, bowing.

The queen lifted her head. Geralt knelt.

“Witcher,” she responded drily.

As before, the queen wore emeralds matching the green of her dress and her eyes. As before, a thin gold crown encircled her ash-gray hair. But her hands, which he remembered as thin and white, were not as thin as before. Calanthe had put on weight.

“Hail, Calanthe of Cintra.”

“I bid you welcome, Geralt of Rivia. Rise. I was waiting. Mousesack, please accompany the girls to the castle.”

“At your service, my queen.”

They were left alone.

“Six years,” Calanthe said without smiling. “You are terribly punctual, witcher.”

He made no comment.

“At times, no, for years at a time, I deluded myself that you might forget. Or that for other reasons you might be prevented from coming. No, I didn't want anything unfortunate to happen to you, but I had to take into consideration the dangerous nature of your profession. It is said that death follows in your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look behind you. Then... when Pavetta... You know already?”

“I know,” Geralt said, inclining his head. “My sincere condolences...”

“No,” she interrupted, “it was all long ago. I no longer wear mourning clothes, as you see. I wore them for long enough. Pavetta and Duny... were destined for each other to the end. How can I deny the power of destiny?”

They fell silent. Calanthe, with a kick, revived the swing.

“And so it is that the witcher returned after the agreed-upon period,” she said slowly.

A strange smile bloomed on her lips. “He returned, requiring that the oath be respected. What do you think, Geralt? It's probably in this manner that the storytellers will recount our meeting in a hundred years. With the difference that they will embellish the story, striking a chord and toying with the emotions. Yes, they know their work well. I can imagine it. Listen, if you would:

“And the cruel witcher said at last: 'Respect your oath, Queen, or my curse will be upon you.' The queen, in tears, fell at the feet of the witcher, crying, 'Mercy! Do not take that child from me! He is all I have!'”

“Calanthe...”

“Don't interrupt me, please,” she replied drily. “Haven't you noticed that I am telling a story? Listen closer: “The cruel and vicious witcher stamped his foot and waved his arms, shouting:

'Beware, perjurer. You will not escape your punishment if you do not respect your oath.' The queen responded: 'So be it, witcher. Let it be done according to destiny. Look over there: a dozen children are playing. Recognize the one destined for you. Take that one and leave me alone, with a broken heart.'” The witcher was silent. Calanthe's smile grew more and more ugly.

“In this story, the queen, I imagine, offers three chances to the witcher. But we do not live in the world of fairy tales, Geralt. We are indeed real, you, me, and our problem. And so is our destiny. This is not a story being told, it is a life at stake. Sickening, cruel, arduous, sparing neither error and prejudice, nor regret and misery, and sparing neither witchers nor queens. That is why, Geralt of Rivia, you will be granted only one attempt.”

The witcher had not yet flinched.

“One single attempt,” repeated Calanthe. “I said before: we are not characters in a story, this is real life where we must find our own moments of happiness, because, you know, we can hardly count on a happy ending. That is why, regardless of your choice, you will not leave empty-handed. You will take a child. Whichever you have chosen. A child that you will turn into a witcher... provided that he passes the trial of Herbs, of course.”

Geralt lifted his head abruptly. The queen was still smiling. He knew that smile, ugly and vicious, contemptuous and concealing none of her artifice.

“I've surprised you,” she said. “I gave the matter some study. Since there was a chance that Pavetta's child might become a witcher, I put myself to the trouble. However, my sources did not inform me of the proportion of children, out of ten, who can pass the trial of Herbs. Would you like to satisfy my curiosity in this area?”

“My queen,” Geralt began, clearing his throat. “Without a doubt you must have taken sufficient pains in your studies to know that my code and my witcher's oath forbid me from uttering the word, let alone from discussing it.”

Calanthe violently stopped the movement of the swing, planting her heels in the ground.

“Three, at most four out of ten,” she explained, feigning concentration with a nod of her head. “A difficult selection, very difficult, I would say, and that at each stage. First, the choice, then that of the test. And finally the changes. How many rogues ultimately receive the medallion and the silver sword? One in ten? One in twenty?”

The witcher remained silent.

“I have given the matter a lot of thought,” Calanthe went on, abandoning her smile. “I came to the conclusion that the stage of the choice is incidental. What difference does it make, Geralt, that one child and not another dies or goes mad as a result of a massive dose of drugs? What difference does it make if the mind is destroyed or consumed by delusions, or the eyes explode instead of becoming the eyes of a cat? In light of the blood or the sickness preceding his death, what difference does it make whether one child or another was truly destined by providence or was perfectly inappropriate? Tell me.”

The witcher folded his hands across his chest to control their trembling.

“To what end?” he asked. “Do you expect an answer?”

“No, I don't expect that.” The queen smiled again. “As always, you remain infallible in your conclusions. Who knows whether I, in response to your answer, might graciously deign to devote a little of my attention to the sincerity and the truthfulness of your words?

The words that you speak might – who knows? – lift with them the weight on your spirit. If not, oh well, let's get to work providing the material for the storytellers and go choose a child, witcher.”

“Calanthe,” he responded, fixing his eyes on the queen. “What do the storytellers matter to us? If they don't get any material, then they will invent something. And even if they have access to some authentic source, you know perfectly well that they will distort it. As you yourself rightly remarked, this is not a fairy tale, but life, sickening and cruel, through which we are trying, by the plague and cholera, to live decently and to strictly limit the amount of harm we inflict on others. In one tale, the queen must actually beg the witcher and he responds by stamping his foot. In life, the queen could simply say: 'Do not take this child, please.' And the witcher answered: 'Since you insist, my queen, so be it.' He then resumed his journey at dusk. Such is life. The storyteller would not get a cent from his audience if he told such nonsense. At most, a kick in the rear. Because it's boring.”

Calanthe stopped smiling. He saw something else shining in her eyes.

“And so?” she growled. 

“Let's end this game of hide and seek, Calanthe. You know what I think. I will leave just as I arrived. Choose a child? What do you take me for? You think that this is so important to me? That I came to Cintra, tormented by an obsession with taking your little child from you? No, Calanthe. I simply wanted to see the child, to look into the eyes of destiny... Myself, I don't know... Don't be afraid. I will not take it. You had only to ask...”

Calanthe jumped up violently from the swing. A green light burned in her eyes.

“Ask?” she growled, furious. “Of you? Me, afraid? Afraid of you, cursed sorcerer?

You dare to turn your expression of contemptuous pity on me? You dare insult me with your condescension! You reproach me for my cowardice! You disobey my will! My kindness to you unleashes your insolence! Beware!”

The witcher decided not to shrug his shoulders: it was more prudent to kneel and prostrate himself. He did.

“Well,” Calanthe growled, standing over him. Her arms were swinging, fists clenched around the spikes of her rings. “Finally. This is a more appropriate position. It is in this position that one answers to a queen when she requires a response. And if instead of a question, it's an order that I give you, you will bow down even lower and hasten without delay to obey it. Understood?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Perfect. Get up.”

He stood up. She looked at him, biting her lips.

“My outburst of anger has not offended you? I ask regarding its form, not its content.”

“No.”

“Good. I will try not to explode again. As I told you, ten children play there in the ditch. Choose the one that seems to you the most suitable. Take him with you and by the gods make him a witcher, because that is the will of destiny. And if not of destiny, know that it is my will.”

He looked her in the eye and bowed very low.

“My queen,” he said, “six years ago, I showed you that there exist things more powerful than the royal will. By the gods, if such things really exist, I will prove it once more. You will not force me to make a choice I do not want to make. Pardon the form, not the content.”

“The depths of my castle dungeon are riddled with cells. I warn you: one more moment, one more word, and you will rot.”

“None of the children playing in the ditch is suited to become a witcher,” he said slowly. “The son of Pavetta is not among them.”

Calanthe blinked, but did not waver.

“Come,” she said finally, turning on her heel.

He followed her through the flowering bushes, the clumps and hedges. The queen entered a sunlit gazebo. Four rattan chairs surrounded a malachite table. On the streaked tabletop supported by four fierce griffons, there sat a pitcher and two small cups.

“Have a seat and pour.”

She drank, without pretension, heavily, like a man. He did the same, but remained standing.

“Sit down,” she repeated. “I want to talk.”

“I'm listening.”

“How did you know that the son of Pavetta was not found among those children?”

“I don't know.” Geralt opted for sincerity. “I said it at random.”

“Ah? I might have guessed. And none of them is suited to become a witcher, is that the truth? How can you tell? By magic?”

“Calanthe,” he answered in a soft voice, “I could neither confirm nor deny it. What you said earlier was the simple truth: every child is capable. The trials decide. Later.”

“By the gods of the sea, in the words of my late husband,” she declared, laughing, “it is all false! Including the law of surprise! The legends of children nobody expected and for whom the claimants return at the appointed time. I thought so! It's a game! A game of chance and fate! But all this is diabolically dangerous, Geralt.”

“I know.”

“A game that causes harm. Why, tell me, do you force the parents or guardians to make such difficult promises? Why take their children? There are so many, everywhere, there is no need to take them. The roads swarm with orphans and vagabonds. In any village, it is easy to buy an infant on the cheap. During the drought before the harvest, any serf will sell his children willingly. What does he care? A new one is already on the way. Why demand an oath of Duny, of Pavetta and myself? Why appear six years to the day after the birth of the child? And why, by cholera, don't you want it now? Why tell me that you won't take it?”

Geralt remained silent. Calanthe nodded her head.

“You don't answer,” she concluded, letting herself fall against the back of her chair.

“Attempt to elucidate the reason behind your silence for me. Logic being the mother of all knowledge, what does she suggest in this matter? What do we have at our disposal? A witcher on a quest for destiny hidden in a strange and unlikely surprise. The witcher discovers that destiny and then abruptly renounces it, saying that he no longer wants the child-surprise. His face remains utterly impassive and his voice resonates with the coolness of glass and metal. The witcher thinks that the queen, a woman after all, will allow herself to be tricked and in the end will cede to his masculinity. No, Geralt, don't wait for me to show weakness. I know why you renounce your choice of a child. You renounce it because you do not believe in destiny, because you are not certain. And when you're not sure... it's fear that takes over. Yes, Geralt, fear is your engine. Fear is your cargo. Dare to say otherwise.”

He slowly pushed the cup on the table so that the clink of silver on malachite would not betray the uncontrollable trembling of his arm.

“You don't deny it?”

“No.”

She bent to seize his hand with vigor.

“You disappoint me,” she said, giggling prettily.

“This isn't voluntary,” he responded, laughing as well. “How did you guess, Calanthe?”

“I did not guess.” She did not release his hand. “I said it at random, that's all.”

They broke out in laughter.

They settled into silence in the greenery and the smell of the clusters of cherries, in the heat and the buzzing of bees.

“Geralt?”

“Yes, Calanthe?”

“You do not believe in destiny?”

“I don't know if I believe in anything. As for destiny... I think that it is not enough.

There must be something more.”

“I must ask you a question on this point: what was your story? It is said that you were a child-surprise. Mousesack said...”

“No, Calanthe. Mousesack had something else in mind. Mousesack undoubtedly knows... but he resorts to legend when it suits him. I was never the thing that one does not expect to find on his return. It is wrong to say that I became a witcher for that reason. I was an ordinary orphan, Calanthe, a kid that his mother, whom he does not remember, did not want. But I know who she is.”

The queen was all ears, but Geralt did not continue. 

“Are all the stories about the law of surprise also legends?”

“All of them. How can one know whether something is chance or destiny?”

“But you, the witchers, you keep looking.”

“We don't stop. But that makes no sense. Nothing makes sense.”

“You believe that a child of providence will safely pass the tests?”

“We believe that such a child would not need to pass the tests.”

“One more question, Geralt, quite personal. Do you mind?”

He nodded his acquiescence.

“It is known that there is no better way to pass on hereditary traits than in the natural way. If you seek a child possessed of such qualities and such strength, why not look for a woman who... I am being indelicate, no? But it seems to me that I've hit my mark.”

“As always,” he responded with a sad smile, “you remain infallible, Calanthe. You have hit upon it, to be sure. What you suggest is impossible for me.”

“Forgive me.” Her smile disappeared. “In the end, it's only human.”

“A witcher isn't human.”

“Ah? And so, no witcher...”

“None. The trial of Herbs, Calanthe, is horrible. And what is irreversibly done to young boys during the changes is even more so.”

“Stop lamenting your fate,” she grumbled. “This is not like you. It doesn't matter what you've been subjected to. The result in my eyes is quite evident. If I knew that Pavetta's child would become someone like you, I wouldn't hesitate an instant.” 

“The risk is very large,” he said quickly. “It's just as you said: four in ten survive.”

“By the devil! Is there only danger in the event of these changes? Only the future witchers take risks? Life is full of hazards, Geralt. Life, too, is governed by selection: accidents, diseases, wars. Opposing destiny is perhaps as dangerous as abandoning it.

Geralt... I would voluntarily give you this child, but.. I am also afraid.”

“I will not take it. It is too great a responsibility, one that I refuse to assume. I would not want for this child to speak about you the way... the way I...”

“You hate this woman, Geralt?”

“My mother? No, Calanthe. I doubt that she was given a choice... or perhaps she had no say? No, she had, you know, enough formulas and elixirs... Choice. There is a sacred and incontestable choice of every woman that must be respected. Emotions are of no importance here. She had the indisputable right to make such a choice. That's what she did. But I think about meeting her, the expression on her face then... it gives me a sort of perverse pleasure, if you understand what I mean.”

“I understand what you say perfectly,” she replied, smiling. “But the chances of this happening are slim. I can't judge your age, witcher, but I suspect that you're much older than you appear. And so this woman...”

“This woman,” he interrupted, “must now look much younger than I do.”

“A sorceress?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. I thought that sorceresses could not...”

“She no doubt thought the same thing.” 

“No doubt. But you're right... Let's not speak any more about the right of a woman to decide. This is not the subject at hand. Returning to our problem. You will not take a child? This is final?”

“Final.”

“What if... destiny was not a myth? If it truly exists, do you not fear that it will take revenge?”

“If destiny takes vengeance, it will be on me,” he replied calmly. “It is I who attack it. You have fulfilled your duty in this matter. If destiny proved not to be a legend, I would then find the child from those you showed me. The child of Pavetta is among them?”

“Yes.” Calanthe inclined her head slowly. “Would you like to look into the eyes of destiny?”

“No. I don't care. I withdraw and renounce my claim on the boy. How can I see the face of destiny when I don't believe in it? To unite two individuals, I think, destiny is not enough. It takes something more. Should I follow, groping along like a blind man, naïve and uncomprehending? I have no respect for such destiny. My decision is irrevocable, Calanthe of Cintra.”

The queen rose, smiling. The witcher could not divine what that smile concealed.

“So be it, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps destiny willed that you withdraw and renounce your claim. I am, for my part, convinced. If you had chosen the right child, the destiny that you mock might have cruelly mocked you in return.”

He saw irony in those green eyes. She continued to wear an indecipherable smile.

A rosebush grew next to the gazebo. Geralt plucked a flower, breaking its stem and then knelt, his head bowed, presenting the flower in his hands.

“I regret that I did not meet you sooner, white-haired one,” she said, accepting the offered rose. “Rise.”

He rose.

“If you change your mind,” she went on, sniffing the flower, “if you decide... Return to Cintra. I will wait for you. Your destiny will be waiting for you, as well. Perhaps not advitam aeternam, but for some time, no doubt.”

“Farewell, Calanthe.”

“Farewell, witcher. Look after yourself. I... I sometimes feel... in a strange way... that I am seeing you for the last time.” 

“Farewell, my queen.”