The Witcher

THE LAST WISH V

'It's an hour since she went in,' Chireadan turned over the hourglass standing on the table. 'I'm starting to get worried. Was Dandilion's throat really so bad? Don't you think we ought to go and have a look?'

 'She made it quite clear that she didn't want us to.' Geralt finished his mug of herb tea, grimacing dreadfully. He valued and liked the settled elves for their intelligence, calm reserve and sense of humour, but he couldn't understand or share their taste in food or drink. 'I don't intend to disturb her, Chireadan. Magic requires time. It can take all day and night, as long as Dandilion gets better.'

 'Oh well, you're right.'

 A sound of hammering came from the room next door. Errdil, as it turned out, lived in a deserted inn which he had bought intending to renovate and then open with his wife, a quiet, taciturn elf. Vratimir, who had taken to their company after a night spent with the elves in the guardroom, volunteered to help with the repairs. He got down to renovating the wood panelling, working alongside the married couple, as soon as the confusion created by the witcher and Yennefer leaping through the wall in the flash of a portal had subsided.

 'I didn't think you'd find it so easy, if I'm to be honest,' Chireadan went on. 'Yennefer isn't the most spontaneous of people when it comes to help. Others' troubles don't particularly bother her, and don't disturb her sleep. In a word, I've never heard of

 her helping anyone if there wasn't something in it for her. I wonder what's in it for her to help you and Dandilion.'

 'Aren't you exaggerating?' The witcher smiled. 'I didn't have such a bad impression of her. She likes to demonstrate her superiority, it's true, but compared with other wizards, with that whole arrogant bunch, she's walking charm and kindliness personified.'

 Chireadan also smiled. 'It's almost as though you thought a scorpion were prettier than a spider,' he said, 'because it's got such a lovely tail. Be careful, Geralt. You're not the first to have judged her like that without knowing she's turned her charm and beauty into weapons.

 Weapons she uses skilfully and without scruple. Which, of course, doesn't change the fact that she's a fascinating and good-looking woman. You wouldn't disagree, would you?'

 Geralt glanced keenly at the elf. For a second time, he thought he saw traces of a blush on his face. It surprised him no less than Chireadan's words. Pure-blooded elves were not wont to admire human women, even the very beautiful ones, and Yennefer, although attractive in her own way, couldn't pass as a great beauty.

 Each to their own taste but, in actual fact, not many would describe sorceresses as good-looking. Indeed, all of them came from social circles where the only fate for daughters would be marriage. Who would have thought of condemning their daughter to years of tedious studies and the tortures of somatic mutations if she could be given away in marriage and advantageously allied? Who wished to have a sorceress in their family? Despite the respect enjoyed by magicians, a sorceress's family did not benefit from her in the least because by the time the girl had completed her education, nothing tied her to her family anymore - only brotherhood counted, to the exclusion of all else. So only daughters with no chance of finding a husband become sorceresses.

 Unlike priestesses and druidesses, who only unwillingly took ugly or crippled girls, sorcerers took anyone who showed evidence of a predisposition. If the child passed the first years of training, magic entered into the equation — straightening and evening out legs, repairing bones which had badly knitted, patching hare-lips, removing scars, birthmarks and pox scars. The young sorceress would become attractive because the prestige of her profession demanded it. The result was pseudo-pretty women with the angry and cold eyes of ugly girls. Girls who couldn't forget their ugliness had been covered by the mask of magic only for the prestige of their profession.

 No, Geralt couldn't understand Chireadan. His eyes, the eyes of a witcher, registered too many details.

 'No, Chireadan,' he answered. 'I wouldn't disagree. Thank you for the warning. But this only concerns Dandiliori. He suffered at my side, in my presence. I didn't manage to save him and I couldn't help him. I'd sit on a scorpion with my bare backside if I knew it would help him.'

 'That's precisely what you've got to beware of most.' The elf smiled enigmatically. 'Because Yennefer knows it and she likes to make the most of such knowledge. Don't trust her, Geralt.

 She's dangerous.'

 He didn't answer.

 Upstairs, the door squeaked. Yennefer stood at the stairs, leaning on the gallery balustrade.

 'Witcher, could you come here?'

 'Of course.'

 The sorceress leant her back against the door of one of the few rooms with furniture, where they had put the suffering troubadour.

The witcher approached, watchful and silent. He saw her left shoulder, slightly higher than her right. Her nose, slightly too long. Her lips, a touch too narrow. Her chin, receding a little too much. Her brows a little too irregular. Her eyes . . .

 He saw too many details. Quite unnecessarily.

 'How's Dandilion?'

 'Do you doubt my capabilities?'

 He continued watching. She had the figure of a twenty-year-old, although he preferred not to guess at her real age. She moved with natural, unaffected grace. No, there was no way of guessing what she had been like before, what had been improved. He stopped thinking about it; there wasn't any sense.

 'Your talented friend will be well,' she said. 'He'll recover his vocal talents.'

 'You have my gratitude, Yennefer.'

 She smiled. You'll have an opportunity to prove it.'

 'Can I look in on him?'

 She remained silent for a moment, watching him with a strange smile and drumming her fingers on the door-frame. 'Of course. Go in.'

 The medallion on the witcher's neck started to quiver, sharply and rhythmically.

 A glass sphere the size of a small watermelon, aflame with a milky light, lay in the centre of the floor. The sphere marked the heart of a precisely traced nine-pointed star whose arms reached the corners and walls of the small chamber. A red pentagram was inscribed within the star. The tips of the pentagram were marked by black candles standing in weirdly shaped holders. Black candles had also been lit at the head of the bed where Dandilion, covered with sheepskins, rested. The poet was breathing peacefully; he didn't wheeze or rasp anymore and the rictus of pain had disappeared from his face, to be replaced by an idiotic smile of happiness.

 'He's asleep,' said Yennefer. And dreaming.'

 Geralt examined the patterns traced on the floor. The magic hidden within them was palpable, but he knew it was a dormant magic. It brought to mind the purr of a sleeping lion, without suggesting how the roar might sound.

 'What is this, Yennefer?'

 A trap.'

 'For what?'

 'For you, for the time being.' The sorceress turned the key in the lock, then turned it over in her hand. The key disappeared.

 And thus I'm trapped,' he said coldly. 'What now? Are you going to assault my virtue?'

 'Don't flatter yourself.' Yennefer sat on the edge of the bed. Dandilion, still smiling like a moron, groaned quietly. It was, without a doubt, a groan of bliss.

 'What's this all about, Yennefer? If it's a game, I don't know the rules.'

 'I told you,' she began, 'that I always get what I want. As it happens, I desire something that Dandilion has. I'll get it from him and we can part ways. Don't worry, he won't come to any harm—'

 'The things you've set on the floor,' he interrupted, 'are used to summon demons. Someone always comes to harm where demons are summoned. I won't allow it.'

 '—not a hair of his head will be harmed,' continued the sorceress, without paying any attention to his words. 'His voice will be even more beautiful and he'll be very pleased, even happy. We'll all be happy. And we'll part with no ill-feelings or resentment.'

 'Oh, Virginia,' moaned Dandilion without opening his eyes. 'Your breasts are so beautiful, more delicate than a swan's down . . . Virginia . . .'

 'Has he lost his mind? Is he raving?'

 'He's dreaming,' smiled Yennefer. 'His dream wish is being satisfied in his sleep. I probed his mind to the very depths. There wasn't much there. A few obscenities, several dreams and masses of poetry. But be that as it may. The seal which plugged the bottle with the djinn, Geralt, I know he doesn't have it. You do. Please give it to me.'

 'What do you need the seal for?'

 'How should I answer your question?' The sorceress smiled coquettishly. 'Let's try this: it's none of your damned business, witcher. Does that satisfy you?'

 'No.' His smile was equally nasty. 'It doesn't. But don't reproach yourself for it, Yennefer. I'm not easily satisfied. Only those who are above average have managed so far.'

 'Pity. So you'll remain unsatisfied. It's your loss. The seal, please. Don't pull that face, it doesn't suit either your good looks or your complexion. In case you hadn't noticed, let me tell you that you are now beginning to repay the gratitude you owe me. The seal is the first instalment for the price to be paid for the singer's voice.'

 'I see you've divided the price into several instalments,' he said coldly. 'Fine. I might have expected that. But let it be a fair trade, Yennefer. I bought your help. And I'll pay.'

 She contorted her lips in a smile, but her violet eyes remained wide open and cold.

 'You shouldn't have any doubts as to that, witcher.'

 'Me,' he repeated. 'Not Dandilion. I'm taking him to a safe place. When I've done that I'll come back and pay your second instalment, and all the others. Because as to the first . . .'

 He reached into a secret pocket of his belt and pulled out the brass seal with the sign of a star and broken cross.

 'Here, take it. Not as an instalment. Accept it from a witcher as proof of his gratitude for having treated him more kindly, albeit in a calculated manner, than the majority of your brethren would have done. Accept it as evidence of goodwill, which ought to convince you that, having seen to my friend's safety, I'll return to repay you. I didn't see the scorpion amidst the flowers, Yennefer. I'm prepared to pay for my inattention.'

 'A pretty speech.' The sorceress folded her arms. 'Touching and pompous. Pity it's in vain. I need Dandilion, so he's staying here.'

'He's already been close to the creature you intend to draw here.' Geralt indicated the patterns on the floor. 'When you've finished your handiwork and brought the djinn here Dandilion is most certainly going to suffer despite all your promises, maybe even more than before.

 Because it's the creature from the bottle that you want, isn't it? Do you intend to master it, force it to serve you? You don't have to answer, I know it's none of my damned business. Do what you want, draw ten demons in if you like. But without Dandilion. If you put him at risk, this will no longer be an honest trade, Yennefer, and you don't have the right to demand payment for that. I won't allow—' He broke off.

 'I wondered when you'd feel it,' giggled the sorceress.

 Geralt tensed his muscles and, clenching his jaw until it hurt, strained his entire will. It didn't help. He was paralysed, like a stone statue, like a post which had been dug into the ground. He couldn't even wiggle a toe.

 'I knew you could deflect a spell thrown straight at you,' said Yennefer. 'I also knew that before you tried anything you'd try to impress me with your eloquence. You were talking while the spell hanging over you was working and slowly breaking you. Now you can only talk. But you don't have to impress me anymore. I know you're eloquent. Any further efforts in that direction will only spoil the effect.'

 'Chireadan—' he said with an effort, still fighting the magical paralysis. 'Chireadan will realise that you're up to something. He'll soon work it out, suspect something any minute now, because he doesn't trust you, Yennefer. He hasn't trusted you from the start—'

 The sorceress swept her hand in a broad gesture. The walls of the chamber became blurred and took on a uniform dull grey appearance and colour. The door disappeared, the windows disappeared, even the dusty curtains and pictures on the wall, splattered with flies, vanished.

 'What if Chireadan does figure it out?' She grimaced maliciously. 'Is he going to run for help?

 Nobody will get through my barrier. But Chireadan's not going to run anywhere. He won't do anything against me. Anything. He's under my spell. No, it's not a question of black sorcery. I didn't do anything in that way. It's a simple question of body chemistry. He's fallen in love with me, the blockhead. Didn't you know? Can you imagine, he even intended to challenge Beau to a duel. A jealous elf. That rarely happens. Geralt, it's not for nothing that I chose this house.'

 'Beau Berrant, Chireadan, Errdil, Dandilion. You really are heading for your goal as straight as you can. But me, Yennefer, you're not going to use me.'

 'Oh I am, I am.' The sorceress got up from the bed and approached him, carefully avoiding the signs and symbols marked out on the floor. 'After all, I did say that you owe me something for curing the poet. It's a matter of a trifle, a small favour. After what I've done, what I intend to do here in a moment, I'm leaving Rinde and I've still got unpaid accounts in this town. I've promised several people here something, and I always keep my promises. Since I won't have time to do so myself, you'll keep those promises for me.'

 He wrestled with all his might. In vain.

 'Don't struggle, my little witcher.' She smiled spitefully. 'It's pointless. You've got a strong will and quite a bit of resistance to magic but you can't contend with me and my spell. And don't act out a farce for me, don't try to charm me with your hard and insolent masculinity.

 You are the only one to think you're insolent and hard. You'd do anything for me in order to save your friend, even without spells at that. You'd pay any price. You'd lick my boots. And maybe something else, too, if I unexpectedly wished to amuse myself.'

 He remained silent. Yennefer was standing in front of him, smiling and fiddling with the obsidian star sparkling with diamonds pinned to her velvet ribbon.

 'I already knew what you were like,' she continued, 'after exchanging a few words with you in Beau's bedroom. And I knew what form of payment I'd demand from you. My accounts in Rinde could be settled by anyone, including Chireadan. But you're the one who's going to do it because you have to pay me. For your insolence, for the cold way you look at me, for the eyes which fish for every detail, for your stony face and sarcastic tone of voice. For thinking that you could stand face to face with Yennefer of Vergerberg and believe her to be full of self-admiration and arrogance, a calculating witch, while staring at her soapy t**s. Pay up, Geralt of Rivia!'

 She grabbed his hair with both hands and kissed him violently on the lips, sinking her teeth into them like a vampire. The medallion on his neck quivered and it felt to Geralt as if the chain was shrinking and strangling him. Something blazed in his head while a terrible humming filled his ears. He stopped seeing the sorceress's violet eyes and fell into darkness.

 He was kneeling. Yennefer was talking to him in a gentle, soft voice.

 'You remember?'

 'Yes, my lady.' It was his own voice.

 'So go and carry out my instructions.'

 'At your command, my lady.'

 'You may kiss my hand.'

 'Thank you, my lady.'

 He felt himself approach her on his knees. Ten thousand bees buzzed in his head. Her hand smelt of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries . . . Lilac and gooseberries ... A flash.

 Darkness.

 A balustrade, stairs. Chireadan's face.

 'Geralt! What's the matter with you? Geralt, where are you going?'

 'I have to . . .' His own voice. 'I have to go—'

 'Oh, gods! Look at his eyes!'

 Vratimir's face, contorted with horror. Errdil's face. And Chireadan's voice.

 'No! Errdil! Don't touch him! Don't try to stop him! Out of his way - get out of his way!'

 The scent of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries . . . A door. The explosion of sunlight. It's hot. Humid. The scent of lilac and gooseberries.

 There's going to be a storm, he thought.

 And that was his last thought.