‘No. I’m not condemning him, but…’
‘No buts about it. Be quiet, please.’
For some time they sat there silently and flipped through prints in a folder.
‘All the versions of the legend,’ Condwiramurs identified one of the images, ‘give this place as the end, the decisive clash between Good and Evil, the castle of Rhys-Rhun. All versions. Except for one.’
‘Except for one,’ Nimue nodded. ‘Apart from the little known anonymously version called The Black Book of Ellander.’
‘The Black Book states that the end of the legend took in Stygga castle.’
‘Correct. Some of the events presented in the book differ considerably from the canon.’
‘I wonder,’ the adept raised her head, ‘which of the two castles is in the picture? Which castle is on your tapestry? Which image is real?’
‘We will probably never know. The castle, where the legend ends, was destroyed and there remains no trace of it, which is confirmed by all versions of the legend, including the Book of Ellander. None of the proposed locations are convincing. We do not know and will probably never learn what the castle looked like and where it stood.’
‘But the truth...’
‘The historical truth is of no importance,’ Nimue sharply interrupted. ‘Remember that we do not know what Ciri really looked like. But here, in this picture drawn by Wilma Wessely, in a violent conversation with Avallac’h set against the background of macabre statues of children, is Ciri. There is no doubt.’
‘But,’ Condwiramurs did not give up, ‘your tapestry...’
‘Shows the castle where the legend ended.’
There was a long silence. The rustling of pictures being turned.
‘I do not like,’ Condwiramurs spoke, ‘the version of the legend in the Black Book. It is so... so...’
‘Frighteningly realistic,’ Nimue finished, shaking her head.
Condwiramurs yawned and put down the book Half a Century of Poetry, the supplemented edition with the afterword by Professor Everett Denhoff Junior. She changed the position of the scattered cushions in the configuration for sleeping. She yawned, stretched and turned off the lamp. The chamber was drowned in darkness, brightened only by slivers of moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains. What to chose for this night, she thought, squirming between the sheets. Leave it to chance? Or try and anchor?
After a moment she decided on the latter.
There was a vague, recurring dream that she could not remember the end of, it got lost and disappeared among other dreams, like a thread that gets those among the colorful patterns in a fabric. A dream that escaped her memory, although it was stubbornly there.
She fell asleep instantly. As soon as she closed her eyes, the dream came.
There was a cloudless night sky, with a moon and stars. On the slopes of a snow-dusted hill she saw vineyards. The black angular outline of buildings with jagged walls and corner towers. There were two riders. Both entered the empty courtyard, both dismounted, both headed for the portal. However, into the dark hole, only one entered.
The one with white hair.
Condwiramurs moaned in her sleep, she thrashed on the bed.
The white haired one followed stairs that went deep, deep underground. Walking down dark corridors, he pauses at regular intervals, lighting torches in their iron brackets. Shadows dance on the walls and ceiling.
More halls, stairs, another corridor. A room, a domed cellar had barrels along the walls. Rubble, a heap of bricks. Then the corridor forks. In both forks there is darkness. The white-haired one lights another torch. He pulls a sword from the sheath on his back. He hesitates, he doesn’t know which for to follow. Finally he decides on the right. It is very dark and twisted, full of debris.
Condwiramurs moaned in her sleep, a mortal fear seizes her. She knows that the path that the white-haired one has chosen, leads into danger. But at the same time she knows that the white-haired one is looking for danger.
Because it is his profession.
The adept stirs between the sheets, moaning. She is a dreamer, the dreamer is in a oneiromanic trance, suddenly she is able to predict what will happen in a moment.
Watch out, she wants to scream but she knows that she will not be able to shout. Watch out, watch out!
Be careful, witcher!
The monster attacked in the dark, from behind, silently, with malignancy. It materialized suddenly from the darkness like a fire that explodes. Like a tongue of flame.
CHAPTER THREE
At dawn of day, when falcon shakes his wing,
Mainly from pleasure, and from noble usage,
Blackbirds too shake theirs then as they sing,
Receiving their mates, mingling their plumage,
O, as the desires it lights in me now rage,
I’d offer you joyously, what befits a lover.
See how Love had written this very page:
Even for this end are we come together.
Francois Villon
Although he was in a hurry and pushed himself hard and did not rest, the witcher stayed in Toussaint almost the entire winter. What were his reasons? I will not write about it. It happened and that is enough, there is no reason to go breaking my head. To those who would condemn the witcher, remember that love has many names, judge not, lest ye be judged.
Dandelion
Half a Century of Poetry
Those were the days of good hunting and good sleeping.
Rudyard Kipling
The monster attacked from the darkness, from its hiding place, quietly and with premeditation. It materialized suddenly from the darkness like a fiery explosion. Like a tongue of flame.
Geralt, though surprised, reacted instinctively. He dodged to the side, brushing up against the wall of the dungeon. The beast flew by and bounced from the stone wall like a ball, waved it wings and jumped again, hissing and opening its horrible beak.
But this time the witcher was prepared.
He struck with a short attack from the elbow, aiming at the throat, the red flap of the gizzards. He succeeded. He felt the blade penetrate the body. The momentum of the blow knocked the monster onto the floor near the wall. The skoffin howled with a cry that almost sounded human. It threw itself among the broken bricks, flapping its wings, spewing blood and thrashing its tail around like a whip. The witcher was sure the fight was over, but the nasty monster gave him an unpleasant surprise. It unexpectedly launched at his throat, screeching, showing its claws and snapping it beak. Geralt jumped, bouncing his shoulder against the wall and launched a blow from below, using the momentum of the bounce. He was successful. The skoffin fell once more between the bricks, its fetid blood spilled down the dungeon wall forming a fanciful pattern. The monster shook, screeched and stretched its long neck, its throat swell and shook. The blood flowed rapidly from it and disappeared among the bricks where it lay.
Geralt could easily finish it off, but he did not want to destroy the skin. He waited calmly until the skoffin bleed to death. He moved a few steps away, undid his pants and took a piss while whistling a nostalgic tune.
The skoffin was silent and still. The witcher moved closer to it and nudged it carefully and gently with the tip of his sword. Seeing that it was over, he grabbed the monster by the tail and held it up. He held the base of the tail at the height of a human’s waist; the skoffin’s sharp beak reached the ground. Its wing span was just over four feet.
‘You’re not particularly heavy,’ Geralt shook the monster that weighed no more than a fattened turkey. ‘Fortunately for me I get paid per piece not by weight.’
***
‘Wow,’ Reynart Bois-de Fresnes whistled through his teeth, which for him, Geralt knew, meant the highest expression of astonishment and admiration. ‘This is the first time I have seen something like this with my own eyes. A true monster, on my honor. So this is the dreaded basilisk?’
‘No,’ Geralt lifted the monster a little higher so the knight would see be
tter. ‘It is not a basilisk. It is a cockatrice.’
‘So what is the difference?’
‘The essentials. The basilisk is also known as the regulus, is a reptile. The cockatrice, also called a skoffin, is an ornithosaur – that is, half reptile, half bird. It is the only representative of the subclass, which scientist call Ornithoreptilia and after long disputes they came to the conclusion that...’
‘And which of the two,’ Reynart Bois-de Fresnes interrupted, apparently without interest of the discussions of scientists, ‘can kill or turn a man to stone with a glance?’
‘None. Those are stories.’
‘Then why are people so afraid? This thing here isn’t so large. Can it be so dangerous?’
‘This thing here,’ Geralt shook the dead monster, ‘usually attacks from behind and without error goes perfectly between the vertebrae or the aorta or under the left kidney. Usually all it takes is a single thrust of its beak. With regards to the basilisk, it will kill you no matter where it bites; it has the strongest know poison which is a neurotoxin that kills within a few moments.’
‘Brrr... Tell me, which one can you kill with a mirror?’
‘All of them. If you slam it hard enough in the head with the mirror.’
Reynard Bois-de Fresnes burst out laughing. Geralt did not laugh, the joke about the basilisk and the mirror was one the teachers in Kaer Morhen repeated often. Equally funny were the jokes about virgins and unicorns. There was also a story of foolishness about a young witcher from Kaer Morhen who made a bet to shake hands with a dragon.
He smiled. Memories.
‘I prefer it when you smile,’ Reynart said, watching him carefully. ‘Like you are at this moment. Not like back in October when we first met in the Druidic woods. Back then you were gloomy, bitter and resentful at the world like a moneylender who had been cheated, and on top of that, like a man who throughout the night has come to nothing. Even in the morning.’
‘Really, I was like that?’
‘Really. So do not be surprised that I prefer you such as you are now. Changed.’
‘Therapy through work,’ Geralt again shook the cockatrice he held by the tail. ‘The beneficial effects of exercise on mental health. And to continue the therapy, I’ll get straight to business. The skoffin can earn more than the agreed upon price for capture. There is little damage to it, so you could take it to a taxidermist for stuffing, but do not take less than two hundred for it. If you have to sell it in pieces, remember that the most valuable feathers are those above the tail, especially these, the central rudders. They are far softer than those of a goose and write very nicely and cleanly with little wear. An experienced scribe will not hesitate to give you five per pen.’
‘I have clients to collect the body,’ the knight smiled. ‘The Guild of Coopers. They saw in Castel Ravello that stuffed ugly thing, that monster, or whatever you call it... Then you, the day after Saovine, went into the basement and killed it.’
‘I remember.’
‘Now the Coopers had seen that stuffed ugly bitch and asked me about obtaining a similar rarity to decorate their guild hall. In Toussaint, the Coopers cannot complain about a lack of work, and as a result they are prosperous so they will not think much if we charge two hundred and twenty for the cockatrice. Maybe even a bit more if we try to haggle. In regards to the feathers… They are not going to know if we took some feathers from the things ass to sell to the county chancery. The chancery does not pay out of pocket, but the county will pay cash, without haggling, not five but ten per pen.’
‘I bow to your cunning.’
‘Nomen omen,’ Reynard Boris-de Fresnes’ smile broadened. ‘My mum must have known something, baptizing me after the sly fox from the nursery rhyme.’
‘You should be a businessman, not a knight.’
‘I should,’ agreed the knight. ‘But if you are born the son of a knight, you will die the son of a knight and will sire another knight. And it does not change, even if you are broke. You know how to count, Geralt, and the culture of the market.’
‘No, not culture. For similar reasons as yours. With the sole difference that I won’t be siring anything. Let’s get out of these dungeons.’
Outside, beneath the walls of the castle, the frost stung and the wind blew from the mountains. The night was a clear and cloudless sky full of stars and the moonlight sparkled on the fresh snow.
The waiting horses snorted in welcome.
‘We could go directly to my customer and make a deal,’ said the knight. ‘But you probably need to get to Beauclair, huh? To a certain bedroom?’
Geralt did not answer, because he did not respond to such questions on principle. He tied the cockatrice onto the back his horse then mounted, Roach.
‘We will visit the customer,’ he said. ‘The night is still young and I’m hungry. I would also like to drink something. Let’s go to town. To Pheasantry.’
The knight laughed and adjusted the red and gold checkered shield hanging on the high saddle so he could scramble up.
‘As you wish, my friend. We go to, Pheasantry. Forward mount.’
They went down the slope to the road lined by a row of poplars.
‘You know what, Reynart,’ Geralt suddenly said. ‘I like you as you are now. Speaking normally. Back when we first met, you used annoying, moronic mannerisms.’
‘Upon my honor, witcher, I am a knight-errant,’ chortled the Reynart Boris-de Fresnes. ‘Have you forgotten? Knights always talk like morons. It is as much a part of their character as this shield here. Thanks to the speech and the coat of arms we know who belongs to the brotherhood.’
‘On my honor,’ said the Checkerboard Knight, ‘you are unnecessarily troubled, Sir Geralt. Your companions have certainly returned to health and their injuries forgotten. The Duchess has palace doctors in profusion, able to cure every disease. On my honor, there is more to discuss.’
‘I am of the same opinion.’ said Regis. ‘Lighten up, Geralt. After all the Druidess healed Milva…’
‘And the Druidess is familiar with treatments,’ Cahir interjected. ‘The best example is my own head. Look, it is as good as new. Milva is certainly healthy already; there is no reason for concern.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Healthy already,’ repeated the Knight, ‘I bet that when we return we will find her dancing at all the balls! Feasting! In Beauclair, at the court of the Duchess Anarietta there is always continuous dancing and feasting. Ha, ha, on my honor, now that I have fulfilled my knightly vow, I am…’
‘You have completed your vow?’
‘I was in the favor of Fortune! I would like to explain that I made an oath. And not just any oath, but on the heron. In Spring. I vowed to apprehend five hundred malefactors before Yule. I have completed this, so I am relieved. I can once again drink and eat beef. And I do not have to hid my name. Let me introduce myself. I am Reynart Boris-de Fresnes.’
‘A pleasure to meet you.’
‘You were talking of balls?’ Angouleme said, urging her horse up next to them. ‘I hope that there will be enough food and drink for us. And I would gladly dance!’
‘On my honor, at the court of Duchess Anna Henrietta, there will be plenty of both,’ said Reynart Boris-de Fresnes. ‘Singing and feasting and performances by jugglers, theatre, music, dancing and poetry in the evenings. You’re friends of Dandelion… I man, the Viscount Julian. And he is very dear to Her Belovedness Our Lady Duchess.’
‘And how long he boasted!’ Angouleme said. ‘Was there truly an affair with them both? Do you know the story, Sir Knight? Tell us!’
‘Angouleme,’ said the witcher. ‘Do you need to know?’
‘I do not need to. But I want to! Leave off the protesting, Geralt. And stop looking so annoyed, otherwise the mushroom pickers will have nothing to do because the sight of your mouth will spoil the mushrooms on the roadside. And you, Sir Knight, tell me.’
The other errant knights who rode at the head of the procession sang a song wi
th a repeated refrain. The words of the song were almost unbelievably stupid.
‘It happened,’ began the knight, ‘six years ago. The poet was a guest at the court during the winter and spring, playing his lute, singing romances and declaiming poems. Prince Rajmund was at the time in Cintra for the congress. He was in no hurry to get back home; there was no secret that he kept a courtesan in Cintra. The Duchess Anarietta and Mister Dandelion… Well, Beauclair is a special, magical place where love works like a powerful spell on people… I’m sure you’ll notice this. The Duchess got to know the troubadour. Maybe they did not even know it was happening – the poems, compliments, flowers, words, glances and sighs… To cut a story short, they both became too close.’
‘How close?’ laughed Angouleme.
‘I was not an eyewitness,’ the knight said stiffly. ‘And it is not suitable to pass on gossip. Moreover, you should know at your age, my dear, that love has many names, ultimately men can be attracted to women, body to body.’
Cahir snorted softly. Angouleme has nothing to add.
‘They met in secret for about two months,’ continues Reynart Boris-de Fresnes. ‘From Belleteyn in midsummer. Over time, however, they forgot prudence. Rumors spread and vicious talk of them did not leave them alone. Mister Dandelion did not stay and hurriedly left the principality. It soon became clear how wise that was. For barely had he left before Prince Rajmund returned from Cintra, and a servant told him everything. The Prince, when he had heard of the insult that had been made against him, as you can imagine, fell into a severe rage. He threw his bowl of soup on the table, slit the informers throat with a knife and roared words of little decency. Then he hit the Marshal in the face and broke his teeth and then in front of witnesses broke a wonderful mirror from Kovir into pieces. The Duchess was sent under arrest to her quarters and was threatened with torture to extract what had happened. After that he commanded that his soldiers pursue Mister Dandelion, and to kill him without mercy and cut his heart out of his chest. Inspired by some old ballads, he had thoughts to fry the heart and force Duchess Anarietta to eat the heart in front of the whole court. Ugh, disgusting! Thankfully, Mister Dandelion managed to disappear over the border in time.’