“They went ahead and cast spells—mainly over a bowl and tankard. Of course some were quickly exposed as frauds by Foltest or the council. A few were even hung on the palisades, but not enough of them. I would have hung them all. I don't suppose I have to say that the striga, in the meantime, was getting her teeth into all sorts of people every now and again and paying no attention to the fraudsters and their spells. Or that Foltest was no longer living in the palace. No one lived there anymore.”
Velerad paused, drank some beer, and the witcher waited in silence.
“And so it's been for seven years, Geralt, because she was born around fourteen years ago. We've had a few other worries, like war with Vizimir of Novigrad—fought for real, understandable reasons—over the border posts, not for some princess or marriage alliance. Foltest sporadically hints at marriage and looks over portraits from neighboring courts, which he then throws down the privy. And every now and then this mania seizes hold of him again, and he sends horsemen out to look for new sorcerers. His promised reward, the three thousand, has attracted any number of cranks, stray knights, even a shepherd known throughout the whole region as a cretin, may he rest in peace. But the striga is still doing well. Every now and again she gets her teeth into someone. You get used to it. And at least those heroes trying to reverse the spell have a use—the beast stuffs herself on the spot and doesn't roam beyond her palace. Foltest has a new palace, of course, quite a fine one.”
“In seven years”—Geralt raised his head—“in seven years, no one has settled the matter?”
“Well, no.” Velerad's gaze penetrated the witcher. “Because the matter can't be settled. We have to come to terms with it, especially Foltest, our gracious and beloved ruler, who will keep nailing these proclamations up at crossroads. Although there are fewer volunteers now. There was one recently, but he insisted on the three thousand in advance. So we put him in a sack and threw him in the lake.”
“There is still no shortage of fraudsters, then.”
“No, far from it,” the castellan agreed without taking his eyes off the witcher. “That's why you mustn't demand gold in advance when you go to the palace. If you go.”
“I’ll go.”
“It's up to you. But remember my advice. As we're talking of the reward, there has been word recently about the second part of it. I mentioned it to you: the princess for a wife. I don't know who made it up, but if the striga looks the way they say then it's an exceptionally grim joke. Nevertheless there's been no lack of fools racing to the palace for the chance of joining the royal family. Two apprentice shoemakers, to be precise. Why are shoemakers so foolish, Geralt?”
“I don't know. And witchers, castellan? Have they tried?”
“There were a few. But when they heard the spell was to be lifted and the striga wasn't to be killed, they mostly shrugged and left. That's one of the reasons why my esteem for witchers has grown, Geralt. And one came along, younger than you—I forget his name, if he gave it at all. He tried.”
“And?”
“The fanged princess spread his entrails over a considerable distance.”
Geralt nodded. “That was all of them?”
“There was one other.”
Velerad remained silent for a while, and the witcher didn't urge him on.
“Yes,” the castellan said finally. “There was one more. At first, when Foltest threatened him with the noose if he killed or harmed the striga, he laughed and started packing his belongings. But then”—Velerad leaned across the table, lowered his voice to almost a whisper—“then he undertook the task. You see, Geralt, there are some wise men in Wyzim, in high positions, who've had enough of this whole affair. Rumor has it these men persuaded the witcher, in secret, not to fuss around with spells but to batter the striga to death and tell the king the spell had failed, that his dear daughter had been killed in self-defense—an accident at work. The king, of course, would be furious and refuse to pay an oren in reward. But that would be an end to it. The witty witcher replied we could chase strigas ourselves for nothing. Well, what could we do? We collected money, bargained…but nothing came of it.”
Geralt raised his eyebrows.
“Nothing,” repeated Velerad. “The witcher didn't want to try that first night. He trudged around, lay in wait, wandered about the neighborhood. Finally, they say, he saw the striga in action, as she does not clamber from her crypt just to stretch her legs. He saw her and scarpered that night. Without a word.”
Geralt's expression changed a little, in what was probably supposed to be a smile.
“Those wise men,” he said, “they still have the money, no doubt? Witchers don't take payment in advance.”
“No doubt they still do,” said Velerad.
“Does the rumor say how much they offer?”
Velerad bared his teeth in a smile. “Some say eight hundred—”
Geralt shook his head.
“Others,” murmured the castellan, “talk of a thousand.”
“Not much when you bear in mind that rumor likes to exaggerate. And the king is offering three thousand.”
“Don't forget about the betrothal,” Velerad mocked. “What are you talking about? It's obvious you won't get the three thousand.”
“How's it obvious?”
Velerad thumped the table. “Geralt, do not spoil my impression of witchers! This has been going on for more than seven years! The striga is finishing off up to fifty people a year, fewer now people are avoiding the palace. Oh no, my friend, I believe in magic. I’ve seen a great deal and I believe, to a certain extent, in the abilities of wizards and witchers. But all this nonsense about lifting the spell was made up by a hunchbacked, snotty old man who'd lost his mind on his hermit's diet. It's nonsense which no one but Foltest believes. Adda gave birth to a striga because she slept with her brother. That is the truth, and no spell will help. Now the striga devours people—as strigas do—she has to be killed, and that is that. Listen: two years ago peasants from some godforsaken hole near Mahakam were plagued by a dragon devouring their sheep. They set out together, battered the dragon to death with stanchions, and did not even think it worth boasting about. But we in Wyzim are waiting for a miracle and bolting our doors every full moon, or tying our criminals to a stake in front of the palace, praying the beast stuffs herself and returns to her sarcophagus.”
“Not a bad method.” The witcher smiled. “Are there fewer criminals?”
“Not a bit of it.”
“Which way to the palace, the new one?”
“I will take you myself. And what about the wise men's suggestion?”
“Castellan,” said Geralt, “why act in haste? After all, I really could have an accident at work, irrespective of my intentions. Just in case, the wise men should be thinking about how to save me from the king's anger and get those fifteen hundred orens, of which rumor speaks, ready.”
“It was to be a thousand.”
“No, Lord Velerad,” the witcher said categorically. “The witcher who was offered a thousand ran at the mere sight of the striga, without bargaining. So the risk is greater than a thousand. Whether it is greater than one and a half remains to be seen. Of course, I will say goodbye beforehand.”
“Geralt?” Velerad scratched his head. “One thousand two hundred?”
“No. This isn't an easy task. The king is offering three, and sometimes it's easier to lift a spell than to kill. But one of my predecessors would have done so, or killed the striga, if this were simple. You think they let themselves be devoured out of fear of the king?”
“Then, witcher”—Velerad nodded wistfully—“our agreement stands. But a word of advice—say nothing to the king about the danger of an accident at work.”
III
Foltest was slim and had a pretty—too pretty—face. He was under forty, the witcher thought. The king was sitting on a dwarf-armchair carved from black wood, his legs stretched out toward the hearth, where two dogs were warming themselves. Next to him on a chest sat
an older, powerfully built man with a beard. Behind the king stood another man, richly dressed and with a proud look on his face. A magnate.
“A witcher from Rivia,” said the king after the moment's silence which fell after Velerad's introduction.
“Yes, your Majesty.” Geralt lowered his head.
“What made your hair so gray? Magic? I can see that you are not old. That was a joke. Say nothing. You've had a fair amount of experience, I dare presume?”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“I would love to hear about it.”
Geralt bowed even lower. “Your Majesty, you know our code of practice forbids us to speak of our work.”
“A convenient code, witcher, very convenient. But tell me, have you had anything to do with spriggans?”
“Yes.”
“Vampires, leshys?”
“Those too.”
Foltest hesitated. “Strigas?”
Geralt raised his head, looking the king in the eyes. “Yes.”
Foltest turned his eyes away. “Velerad!”
“Yes, Gracious Majesty?”
“Have you given him the details?”
“Yes, your Gracious Majesty. He says the spell cast on the princess can be reversed.”
“I have known that for a long time. How, witcher? Oh, of course, I forgot. Your code of practice. All right. I will make one small comment. Several witchers have been here already. Velerad, you have told him? Good. So I know that your speciality is to kill, rather than to reverse spells. This isn't an option. If one hair falls from my daughter's head, your head will be on the block. That is all. Ostrit, Lord Segelen, stay and give him all the information he requires. Witchers always ask a lot of questions. Feed him and let him stay in the palace. He is not to drift from tavern to tavern.”
The king rose, whistled to his dogs and made his way to the door, scattering the straw covering the chamber floor. At the door he paused.
“If you succeed, witcher, the reward is yours. Maybe I will add something if you do well. Of course, the nonsense spread by common folk about marrying the princess carries not a word of truth. I’m sure you don't believe I would give my daughter's hand to a stranger?”
“No, your Majesty. I don't.”
“Good. That shows you have some wisdom.”
Foltest left, closing the door behind him. Velerad and the magnate, who had been standing all the while, immediately sat at the table. The castellan finished the king's half-full cup, peered into the jug and cursed. Ostrit, who took Foltest's chair, scowled at the witcher while he stroked the carved armrests. Segelin, the bearded man, nodded at Geralt.
“Do sit, witcher, do sit. Supper will soon be served. What would you like to know? Castellan Velerad has probably already told you everything. I know him, he has sooner told you too much than too little.”
“Only a few questions.”
“Ask.”
“The castellan said that, after the striga's appearance, the king called up many Knowing Ones.”
“That's right. But don't say striga, say princess. It makes it easier to avoid making a mistake in the king's presence—and any consequent unpleasantness.”
“Was there anyone well-known among the Knowing Ones? Anyone famous?”
“There were such, then and later. I don't remember the names. Do you, Lord Ostrit?”
“I don't recall,” said the magnate. “But I know some of them enjoyed fame and recognition. There was much talk of it.”
“Were they in agreement that the spell can be lifted?”
“They were far from any agreement”—Segelin smiled—“on any subject. But such an opinion was expressed. It was supposed to be simple, not even requiring magical abilities. As I understand it, it would suffice for someone to spend the night—from sunset to the third crowing of the cock—by the sarcophagus.”
“Simple indeed,” snorted Velerad.
“I would like to hear a description of the…the princess.”
Velerad leapt up from his chair. “The princess looks like a striga!” he yelled. “Like the most strigish striga I have heard of! Her Royal Highness, the cursed royal bastard, is four cubits high, shaped like a barrel of beer, has a maw which stretches from ear to ear and is full of dagger-like teeth, has red eyes and a red mop of hair! Her paws, with claws like a wild cat's, hang down to the ground! I’m surprised we've yet to send her likeness to friendly courts! The princess, plague choke her, is already fourteen. Time to think of giving her hand to a prince in marriage!”
“Hold on, Velerad.” Ostrit frowned, glancing at the door. Segelin smiled faintly.
“The description, although vivid, is reasonably accurate, and that's what you wanted, isn't it, witcher? Velerad didn't mention that the princess moves with incredible speed and is far stronger for her height and build than one would expect. And she is fourteen years old, if that is of any importance.”
“It is,” said the witcher. “Do the attacks on people only occur during the full moon?”
“Yes,” replied Segelin, “if she attacks beyond the old palace. Within the palace walls people always die, irrespective of the moon's phase. But she only ventures out during the full moon, and not always then.”
“Has there been even one attack during the day?”
“No.”
“Does she always devour her victims?”
Velerad spat vehemently on the straw.
“Come on, Geralt, it'll be supper soon. Pish! Devours, takes a bite, leaves aside, it varies—according to her mood, no doubt. She only bit the head from one, gutted a couple, and a few more she picked clean to the bone, sucked them dry, you could say. Damned mother's—!”
“Careful, Velerad,” snarled Ostrit. “Say what you want about the striga but do not insult Adda in front of me, as you would not dare in the king's presence!”
“Has anyone she's attacked survived?” the witcher asked, apparently paying no special attention to the magnate's outburst.
Segelin and Ostrit looked at each other.
“Yes,” said the bearded man. “At the very beginning, seven years ago, she threw herself at two soldiers standing guard over the crypt. One escaped—”
“And then,” interrupted Velerad, “there was another, the miller she attacked near the town. You remember…?”
IV
The following day, late in the evening, the miller was brought to the small chamber above the guardhouse allocated to the witcher. He was led in by a soldier in a hooded coat.
The conversation did not yield any significant results. The miller was terrified; he mumbled and stammered, and his scars told the witcher more than he did. The striga could open her jaws impressively wide and had extremely sharp teeth, including very long upper fangs—four of them, two on each side. Her claws were sharper than a wildcat's, but less curved. And it was only because of that the miller had managed to tear himself away.
Having finished his examination Geralt nodded to the miller and soldier, dismissing them. The soldier pushed the peasant through the door and lowered his hood. It was Foltest himself.
“Sit, do not get up,” said the king. “This visit is unofficial. Are you happy with the interview? I heard you were at the palace this morning.”
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“When will you set about your task?”
“It is four days until the full moon. After that.”
“You prefer to have a look at her yourself beforehand?”
“There is no need. But having had her fill the—the princess will be less active.”
“Striga, master witcher, striga. Let us not play at diplomacy. She will be a princess afterward. And that is what I have come to talk about. Answer me unofficially, briefly and clearly: will it work or not? Don't hide behind your code.”
Geralt rubbed his brow.
“I confirm, your Majesty, that the spell might be reversed. And, unless I am mistaken, it can be done by spending the night at the palace. The third crowing of the cock, as long as it catch
es the striga outside her sarcophagus, will end the spell. That is what is usually done with strigas.”
“So simple?”
“It is not simple. First you have to survive the night. Then there are exceptions to the rule, for example, not one night but three. Consecutively. There are also cases which are…well…hopeless.”
“Yes,” Foltest bristled. “I keep hearing that from some people. Kill the monster because it's an incurable case. Master witcher, I am sure they have already spoken to you. Am I right? Hack the man-eater to death without any more fuss, at the beginning, and tell the king nothing else could be done. I won't pay, but they will. Very convenient. And cheap. Because the king will order the witcher beheaded or hanged and the gold will remain in their pockets.”
“The king unconditionally orders the witcher to be beheaded?” Geralt grimaced.
Foltest looked the Rivian in the eyes for a long while.
“The king does not know,” he finally said. “But the witcher should bear such an eventuality in mind.”
Geralt was silent for a moment. “I intend to do what is in my power,” he said. “But if it goes badly I will defend my life. Your Majesty, you must also be prepared for such an eventuality.”
Foltest got up. “You do not understand me. It's obvious you'll kill her if it becomes necessary, whether I like it or not. Because otherwise she'll kill you, surely and inevitably. I won't punish anyone who kills her in self-defense. But I will not allow her to be killed without trying to save her. There have already been attempts to set fire to the old palace. They shot at her with arrows, dug pits and set traps and snares, until I hung a few of her attackers. But that is not the point. Witcher, listen!”