The elf straightened. “I’ve already let off some steam on you, while your hands were free,” she said. “I rode you down and swiped you on the head. And I’ll also finish you off when the time comes.”
He didn't answer.
“I’d much rather stab you from close up, looking you in the eyes,” continued the elf. “But you stink most hideously, human, so I’ll shoot you.”
“As you wish.” The witcher shrugged, as far as the knots let him. “Do as you like, noble Aen Seidhe. You shouldn't miss a tied-up, motionless target.”
The elf stood over him, legs spread, and leaned down, flashing her teeth.
“No, I shouldn't,” she hissed. “I hit whatever I want. But you can be sure you won't die from the first arrow. Or the second. I’ll try to make sure you can feel yourself dying.”
“Don't come so close.” He grimaced, pretending to be repulsed. “You stink most hideously, Aen Seidhe.”
The elf jumped back, rocked on her narrow hips and forcefully kicked him in the thigh. Geralt drew his legs in and curled up, knowing where she was aiming next. He succeeded, and got her boot in the hip, so hard his teeth rattled.
The tall elf standing next to her echoed each kick with a sharp chord on the lute.
“Leave him, Toruviel!” bleated the sylvan. “Have you gone mad? Galarr, tell her to stop!”
“Thaesse!” shrieked Toruviel, and kicked the witcher again. The tall Seidhe tore so violently at the strings that one snapped with a protracted whine.
“Enough of that! Enough, for gods’ sake!” Dandilion yelled fretfully, wriggling and tumbling in the ropes. “Why are you bullying him, you stupid whore? Leave us alone! And you leave my lute alone, all right?”
Toruviel turned to him with an angry grimace on her cracked lips. “Musician!” she growled. “A human, yet a musician! A lutenist!”
Without a word, she pulled the instrument from the tall elf's hand, forcefully smashed the lute against the pine and threw the remains, tangled in the strings, on Dandilion's chest.
“Play on a cow's horn, you savage, not a lute.”
The poet turned as white as death; his lips quivered. Geralt, feeling cold fury rising up somewhere within him, drew Toruviel's eyes with his own.
“What are you staring at?” hissed the elf, leaning over. “Filthy ape-man! Do you want me to gouge out those insect eyes of yours?”
Her necklace hung down just above him. The witcher tensed, lunged, and caught the necklace in his teeth, tugging powerfully, curling his legs in and turning on his side.
Toruviel lost her balance and fell on top of him.
Geralt wriggled in the ropes like a fish, crushed the elf beneath him, tossed his head back with such force that the vertebrae in his neck cracked and, with all his might, butted her in the face with his forehead. Toruviel howled and struggled.
They pulled him off her brutally and, tugging at his clothes and hair, lifted him. One of them struck him; he felt rings cut the skin over his cheekbone and the forest danced and swam in front of his eyes. He saw Toruviel lurch to her knees, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. The elf wrenched the dagger from its sheath but gave a sob, hunched over, grasped her face and dropped her head between her knees.
The tall elf in the jacket adorned with colorful feathers took the dagger from her hand and approached the witcher. He smiled as he raised the blade. Geralt saw him through a red haze; blood from his forehead, which he'd cut against Toruviel's teeth, poured into his eye sockets.
“No!” bleated Torque, running up to the elf and hanging on to his arm. “Don't kill him! No!”
“Voe'rle, Vanadain,” a sonorous voice suddenly commanded. “Quess aen? Caelm, evellienn! Galarr!”
Geralt turned his head as far as the fist clutching his hair permitted.
The horse which had just reached the glade was as white as snow, its mane long, soft and silky as a woman's hair. The hair of the rider sitting in the sumptuous saddle was identical in color, pulled back at the forehead by a bandana studded with sapphires.
Torque, bleating now and then, ran up to the horse, caught hold of the stirrup and showered the white-haired elf with a torrent of words. The Seidhe interrupted him with an authoritative gesture and jumped down from his saddle. He approached Toruviel, who was being supported by two elves, and carefully removed the bloodied handkerchief from her face. Toruviel gave a heartrending groan. The Seidhe shook his head and approached the witcher. His burning black eyes, shining like stars in his pale face, had dark rings beneath them, as if he had not slept for several nights in a row.
“You stink even when bound,” he said quietly in unaccented common tongue. “Like a basilisk. I’ll draw my conclusions from that.”
“Toruviel started it,” bleated the devil. “She kicked him when he was tied up, as if she'd lost her mind—”
With a gesture, the elf ordered him to be quiet. At his command, the other Seidhe dragged the witcher and Dandilion under the pine tree and fastened them to the trunk with belts. Then they all knelt by the prostrate Toruviel, sheltering her. After a moment Geralt heard her yell and fight in their arms.
“I didn't want this,” said the sylvan, still standing next to them. “I didn't, human. I didn't know they'd arrive just when we—When they stunned you and tied your companion up, I asked them to leave you there, in the hops. But—”
“They couldn't leave any witnesses,” muttered the witcher.
“Surely they won't kill us, will they?” groaned Dandilion. “Surely they won't…”
Torque said nothing, wiggling his soft nose.
“Bloody hell.” The poet groaned. “They're going to kill us? What's all this about, Geralt? What did we witness?”
“Our sylvan friend is on a special mission in the Valley of Flowers. Am I right, Torque? At the elves’ request he's stealing seeds, seedlings, knowledge about farming…What else, devil?”
“Whatever I can,” bleated Torque. “Everything they need. And show me something they don't need. They're starving in the mountains, especially in winter. And they know nothing about farming. And before they've learned to domesticate game or poultry, and to cultivate what they can in their plots of land…They haven't got the time, human.”
“I don't care a shit about their time. What have I done to them?” groaned Dandilion. “What wrong have I done them?”
“Think carefully,” said the white-haired elf, approaching without a sound, “and maybe you can answer the question yourself.”
“He's simply taking revenge for all the wrong that man has done the elves.” The witcher smiled wryly. “It's all the same to him who he takes his revenge on. Don't be deluded by his noble bearing and elaborate speech, Dandilion. He's no different than the black-eyes who knocked us down. He has to unload his powerless hatred on somebody.”
The elf picked up Dandilion's shattered lute. For a moment, he looked at the ruined instrument in silence, and finally threw it into the bushes.
“If I wanted to give vent to hatred or a desire for revenge,” he said, playing with a pair of soft white leather gloves, “I’d storm the valley at night, burn down the village and kill the villagers. Childishly simple. They don't even put out a guard. They don't see or hear us when they come to the forest. Can there be anything simpler, anything easier, than a swift, silent arrow from behind a tree? But we're not hunting you. It is you, man with strange eyes, who is hunting our friend, the sylvan Torque.”
“Eeeeee, that's exaggerating,” bleated the devil. “What hunt? We were having a bit of fun—”
“It is you humans who hate anything that differs from you, be it only by the shape of its ears,” the elf went on calmly, paying no attention to the sylvan. “That's why you took our land from us, drove us from our homes, forced us into the savage mountains. You took our Dol Blathanna, the Valley of Flowers. I am Filavandrel aen Fidhail of Silver Towers, of the Feleaorn family from White Ships. Now, exiled and hounded to the edge of the world, I am Filavandrel of the Edge of the World
.”
“The world is huge,” muttered the witcher. “We can find room. There's enough space.”
“The world is huge,” repeated the elf. “That's true, human. But you have changed this world. At first, you used force to change it. You treated it as you treat anything that falls into your hands. Now it looks as if the world has started to fit in with you. It's given way to you. It's given in.”
Geralt didn't reply.
“Torque spoke the truth,” continued Filavandrel. “Yes, we are starving. Yes, we are threatened with annihilation. The sun shines differently, the air is different, water is not as it used to be. The things we used to eat, made use of, are dying, diminishing, deteriorating. We never cultivated the land. Unlike you humans, we never tore at it with hoes and ploughs. To you, the earth pays a bloody tribute. It bestowed gifts on us. You tear the earth's treasures from it by force. For us, the earth gave birth and blossomed because it loved us. Well, no love lasts forever. But we still want to survive.”
“Instead of stealing grain, you can buy it. As much as you need. You still have a great many things that humans consider valuable. You can trade.”
Filavandrel smiled contemptuously. “With you? Never.”
Geralt frowned, breaking up the dried blood on his cheek. “The devil with you, then, and your arrogance and contempt. By refusing to cohabit, you're condemning yourselves to annihilation. To cohabit, to come to an understanding, that's your only chance.”
Filavandrel leaned forward, his eyes blazing.
“Cohabit on your terms?” he asked in a changed, yet still calm, voice. “Acknowledging your sovereignty? Losing our identity? Cohabit as what? Slaves? Pariahs? Cohabit with you from beyond the walls you've built to fence yourselves away in towns? Cohabit with your women and hang for it? Or look on at what half-blood children must live with? Why are you avoiding my eyes, strange human? How do you find cohabiting with neighbors from whom, after all, you do differ somewhat?”
“I manage.” The witcher looked him straight in the eyes. “I manage because I have to. Because I’ve no other way out. Because I’ve overcome the vanity and pride of being different. I’ve understood that they are a pitiful defense against being different. Because I’ve understood that the sun shines differently when something changes, but I’m not the axis of those changes. The sun shines differently, but it will continue to shine, and jumping at it with a hoe isn't going to do anything. We've got to accept facts, elf. That's what we've got to learn.”
“That's what you want, isn't it?” With his wrist, Filavandrel wiped away the sweat above his white brows. “Is that what you want to impose on others? The conviction that your time has come, your human era and age, and that what you're doing to other races is as natural as the rising and the setting of the sun? That everybody has to come to terms with it, to accept it? And you accuse me of vanity? And what are the views you're proclaiming? Why don't you humans finally realize that your domination of the world is as natural and repellant as lice multiplying in a sheepskin coat? You could propose we cohabit with lice and get the same reaction—and I’d listen to the lice as attentively if they, in return for our acknowledgment of their supremacy, were to agree to allow common use of the coat.”
“So don't waste time discussing it with such an unpleasant insect, elf,” said the witcher, barely able to control his voice. “I’m surprised you want to arouse a feeling of guilt and repentance in such a louse as me. You're pitiful, Filavandrel. You're embittered, hungry for revenge and conscious of your own powerlessness. Go on, thrust the sword into me. Revenge yourself on the whole human race. You'll see what relief that'll bring you. First kick me in the balls or the teeth, like Toruviel.”
Filavandrel turned his head.
“Toruviel is sick,” he said.
“I know that disease and its symptoms.” Geralt spat over his shoulder. “The treatment I gave her ought to help.”
“This conversation is senseless.” Filavandrel stepped away. “I’m sorry we've got to kill you. Revenge has nothing to do with it; it's purely practical. Torque has to carry on with his task and no one can suspect who he's doing it for. We can't afford to go to war with you, and we won't be taken in by trade and exchange. We're not so naive that we don't know your merchants are just outposts of your way of life. We know what follows them. And what sort of cohabitation they bring.”
“Elf,” Dandilion, who had remained silent until now, said quietly, “I’ve got friends. People who'll pay ransom for us. In the form of provisions, if you like, or any form. Think about it. After all, those stolen seeds aren't going to save you—”
“Nothing will save them anymore,” Geralt interrupted him. “Don't grovel, Dandilion, don't beg him. It's pointless and pitiful.”
“For someone who has lived such a short time”—Filavandrel forced a smile—“you show an astounding disdain for death, human.”
“Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,” the witcher said calmly. “An appropriate philosophy for a louse, don't you agree? And your longevity? I pity you, Filavandrel.”
The elf raised his eyebrows.
“Why?”
“You're pathetic, with your little stolen sacks of seeds on pack horses, with your handful of grain, that tiny crumb thanks to which you plan to survive. And with that mission of yours which is supposed to turn your thoughts from imminent annihilation. Because you know this is the end. Nothing will sprout or yield crops on the plateau; nothing will save you now. But you live long, and you will live very long in arrogant isolation, fewer and fewer of you, growing weaker and weaker, more and more bitter. And you know what'll happen then, Filavandrel. You know that desperate young men with the eyes of hundred-year-old men and withered, barren and sick girls like Toruviel will lead those who can still hold a sword and bow in their hands, down into the valleys. You'll come down into the blossoming valleys to meet death, wanting to die honorably, in battle, and not in sickbeds of misery, where anemia, tuberculosis and scurvy will send you. Then, long-living Aen Seidhe, you'll remember me. You'll remember that I pitied you. And you'll understand that I was right.”
“Time will tell who was right,” said the elf quietly. “And herein lies the advantage of longevity. I’ve got a chance of finding out, if only because of that stolen handful of grain. You won't have a chance like that. You'll die shortly.”
“Spare him, at least.” Geralt indicated Dandilion with his head. “No, not out of lofty mercy. Out of common sense. Nobody's going to ask after me, but they are going to take revenge for him.”
“You judge my common sense poorly,” the elf said after some hesitation. “If he survives thanks to you, he'll undoubtedly feel obliged to avenge you.”
“You can be sure of that!” Dandilion burst out, pale as death. “You can be sure, you son of a bitch. Kill me too, because I promise otherwise I’ll set the world against you. You'll see what lice from a fur coat can do! We'll finish you off even if we have to level those mountains of yours to the ground! You can be sure of that!”
“How stupid you are, Dandilion,” sighed the witcher.
“Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,” said the poet haughtily, the effect somewhat spoiled by his teeth rattling like castanets.
“That settles it.” Filavandrel took his gloves from his belt and pulled them on. “It's time to end this.”
At his command, the elves positioned themselves opposite Geralt and Dandilion with bows. They did it quickly; they'd obviously been waiting for this a long time. One of them, the witcher noticed, was still chewing a turnip. Toruviel, her mouth and nose bandaged with cloth and birch bark, stood next to the archers. Without a bow.
“Shall I bind your eyes?” asked Filavandrel.
“Go away.” The witcher turned his head. “Go—”
“A d'yeable aep arse,” Dandilion finished for him, his teeth chattering.
“Oh, no!” the sylvan suddenly bleated, running up and sheltering the condemned me
n with his body. “Have you lost your mind? Filavandrel! This is not what we agreed! Not this! You were supposed to take them up to the mountains, hold them somewhere in some cave, until we'd finished—”
“Torque,” said the elf, “I can't. I can't risk it. Did you see what he did to Toruviel while tied up? I can't risk it.”
“I don't care what you can or can't! What do you imagine? You think I’ll let you murder them? Here, on my land? Right next to my hamlet? You accursed idiots! Get out of here with your bows or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!”
“Torque.” Filavandrel rested his hands on his belt. “This is necessary.”
“Duvvelsheyss, not necessary!”
“Move aside, Torque.”
The sylvan shook his ears, bleated even louder, stared and bent his elbow in an abusive gesture popular among dwarves.
“You're not going to murder anybody here! Get on your horses and out into the mountains, beyond the passes! Otherwise you'll have to kill me too!”
“Be reasonable,” said the white-haired elf slowly. “If we let them live, people are going to learn what you're doing. They'll catch you and torture you. You know what they're like, after all.”
“I do,” bleated the sylvan still sheltering Geralt and Dandilion. “It turns out I know them better than I know you! And, verily, I don't know who to side with. I regret allying myself with you, Filavandrel!”
“You wanted to,” said the elf coldly, giving a signal to the archers. “You wanted to, Torque. L’sparellean! Evellienn!”
The elves drew arrows from their quivers. “Go away, Torque,” said Geralt, gritting his teeth. “It's senseless. Get aside.” The sylvan, without budging from the spot, showed him the dwarves’ gesture.
“I can hear…music…” Dandilion suddenly sobbed.
“It happens,” said the witcher, looking at the arrowheads. “Don't worry. There's no shame in fear.”
Filavandrel's face changed, screwed up in a strange grimace. The white-haired Seidhe suddenly turned round and gave a shout to the archers. They lowered their weapons.