The Witcher

THE SWORD OF DESTINY VIII

“No,” said the druid. “Calanthe has changed her plans: she no longer wants Ciri and Kistrin to marry. She has her reasons. In addition, it will not surprise you to hear that, since this unfortunate attack made on the merchants, King Ervyll has lost much of his credibility in my eyes, and you know that my judgment counts in the kingdom. No, we will not even stop in Nastrog. I will take the little one directly to Cintra. Come with us, Geralt.”

“What for?”

The witcher glanced at Ciri, who shivered under a tree, protected by Mousesack's fur cloak.

“You know why. This child, Geralt, is your destiny. Your paths crossed for the third time, yes, the third time. In a certain sense, of course, especially when it comes to the first two times. I hope, Geralt, that you do not think that this is a simple coincidence.”

“What difference does it make what I call it?” replied the witcher, forcing a smile.

“Things escape the names we give them, Mousesack. Why take me to Cintra? I've already been there, I've already met her, as you said, by other paths. So what?”

“Geralt, you demanded then an oath that Calanthe, Pavetta, and her husband swore to. It has been upheld. Ciri is the child-surprise. Destiny requires...”

“That I take this child and make her into a witcher? A little girl! Look at me, Mousesack. Can you imagine that I could have been a fresh and pretty little girl?”

“The devil with the witchers' arts!” retorted the druid, carried away. “What does your heart say? What is the relationship? No, Geralt, I see that you do not understand and that I must use simple words. Listen, any cretin can exact an oath. You're one of them. That in itself is nothing extraordinary. It's the child who is extraordinary. As is the link that was created when the child was born. I must be even more clear? Not a problem, Geralt: since the birth of Ciri, your wishes and plans cease to be important, as does what you refuse and what you renounce. Yourself, by plague and cholera, you have ceased to count! Do you understand?”

“Don't shout. You're going to wake her up. Our surprise is sleeping. And when she wakes up... Mousesack, even extraordinary things, one can... One must sometimes renounce.”

The druid watched him insistently.

“You know, however, that you can never have a child of your own.”

“I know.”

“And you renounce her?”

“I renounce her. Do I not have the right?”

“You have the right,” Mousesack responded. “And how. But it's risky. There is an old saying that the sword of destiny...”

“... has two edges,” finished Geralt. “I know.”

“Then do as you think is right.” The druid turned his head and spat. “And to think that I was ready to risk my neck for you...”

“You?”

“Yes. Unlike you, I believe in destiny. And I know that it is dangerous to toy with a double-edged sword. Don't play games, Geralt. Take the opportunity that has been given to you. Make the link with Ciri into a normal relationship between guardian and child. Otherwise... This link could manifest in other ways. More terrible. Negative and destructive. I want to protect you, you and the little one. If you wanted to take her, I would not be opposed. I would take the risk of explaining everything to Calanthe.”

“How do you know that Ciri would be willing to follow me? Have you had a premonition?”

“No,” Mousesack responded seriously. “I know because she fell asleep when you held her tight in your arms, and because she whispers your name in a dream and her hand seeks yours.”

“That's enough.” Geralt stood. “I should move on. Farewell, bearded one. All my respects to Calanthe. For Ciri's escapades, invent something.”

“Your escape is illusory, Geralt.”

“My escape from destiny?”

The witcher tightened the straps of a recovered horse.

“No,” the druid responded, watching the little girl: “from her.”

The witcher nodded and then vaulted into the saddle. Mousesack remained seated, motionless, using a stick to stir the dying fire.

Geralt went slowly through the heather that reached his stirrups, in the main slope of the valley, toward the black forest.

“Geralt!”

He turned. Ciri stood at the top of the hill, the little figure with ashen hair looking defeated.

“Don't go!”

He waved his hand.

“Don't go!” she screamed with less strength. “Don't go!”

I must, he thought. I must, Ciri. Because... I'm leaving forever.

“Don't think that you'll get away so easily!” she cried. “Don't even think it! You can't run away! I am part of your destiny, you hear?”

There is no destiny, he thought. It doesn't exist. The only thing that is predestined for us all is death. The second side of the sword with two edges is death. The first is me. The second is the death that follows me step by step. I cannot, I have no right to expose you to it, Ciri.

“I am your destiny!”

He heard more cries from the top of the hill, but with less strength and more desperation.

With a kick, he urged his horse on and plunged into the damp forest, black and cold as the abyss, in the familiar shadow and benevolent unending darkness.