After suffering a severe head-wound, left to bleed out on the dirt, Alaster hadn't expected to wake up. But wake up he did, though not where or when he'd remembered being; or most unbelievably, as 'who' he'd remembered being. Now a cursed child spurned by his village, he'd cling on to his only lifeline—an old monster-hunter passing through town, and one all too familiar...
Valiant Wanderer, Hero of Troubled Times (Witcher SI)
- Thread starter Doomed.Knight
- Start date
- Created
- Status
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 12
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 3
-
Statistics (3 threadmarks, 7.8k words)
User Total Doomed.Knight 3 Threadmarks Reader mode
Chapter 1
New
Two people knelt over a corpse—that of a fifteen-year-old boy. His cause of death was no mystery, given the arrow shaft sticking from his eye-socket. It was a gruesome wound, more so given the victim's youth, and one that drew a frown from the older of the two parties. To call him unusual would be understating it—he had white hair, not gray, though his fairly handsome face was wrinkle free, and with slitted eyes like a cat's.
"No sense in lingering here." He said gruffly, standing. "Just take care you stay behind me so you won't end up like that."
His companion, a boy in his own right and even younger than the corpse, stifled a yawn. He fell into step behind his guardian without a word.
"Hopefully we're not too late." Geralt muttered—the man's name, if he could be called one. He didn't sound too optimistic.
"I don't get it." The boy said, as if to himself, when they'd covered some distance. The forest was dense, and gaining ground was arduous. Every gap between the large trees was filled in by a dozen smaller ones—birches, alders, hornbeams, brambles, junipers, ferns and the like. Insects buzzed around their ears, birds flitted above their heads, beetles and spiders scuttled underfoot. "Why come test your luck, hoping you won't get shot-to-shit in this stuffy forest? If it were me, I'd have chalked her up as a lost cause. Having a short life-expectancy is part of being a royal anyway."
"Shut it." Geralt said, his tone tinged with annoyance. He'd have left the little bastard behind if he could've helped it, but there wasn't anyone to look after him. As much trouble as it was, he knew Alaster would get himself into ten times the trouble if left to his own devices. Still, it was unfair. He wasn't the one who'd picked up the brat, so why was it suddenly his problem?
Unfortunately, Geralt's wish wasn't to be fulfilled. It wasn't long before they came across a fresh set of corpses, almost hidden under the brush. If it weren't for a single sword sticking upward, its scratched blade reflecting the sunlight, they might've walked right past them.
For better or worse, the sword belonged to a man instead of a boy this time. His simple clothing, colored a practical dun, indicated his low status. Not counting the bloodstains—courtesy of two expertly-fletched arrow shafts sticking from his chest—were clean and new. A third body was prone nearby, dressed in a leather jerkin and short, green cape. The ground around his feet was churned up, moss and pine needles furrowed down to the sand—his death hadn't been as quick as the other two's.
They were still gathering their wits when a low groan sounded in the little clearing. Geralt was there in an eyeblink, gripping a fourth man under the shoulder, slowly sitting him upright. His powerfully-built figure with a black, curly head of hair and beard contrasted with his deathly pallor. His deerskin kaftan was red with blood, but he was alive and conscious. "Geralt…" he groaned. "O, ye gods, I must be dreaming…"
"Frexinet!" Geralt said in astonishment. "You, here?"
"Yes, me! Ah, fuck, it hurts…"
"Don't move." Geralt commanded, gesturing for Alaster to stand clear. "Where were you hit? I don't see an arrow."
"It passed… right through." Frexinet huffed. "I broke off the arrowhead… and pulled it out. Listen, Geralt—"
"Damn you, be quiet. You have a punctured lung, you'll choke on your own blood if you keep yapping. What the bloody hell are you doing in dryad territory? Nobody gets out of here alive, I can't believe you didn't know that!"
"Later…" Frexinet groaned and spat blood. "I'll tell you later… Now get me out. Oh, a pox on it. Have a care… Oooooow…"
"I can't do it,' Geralt said, straightening up and looking around. His gaze rested on Alaster for a moment, but a ten-year-old boy wasn't likely to be much help. "You're too heavy."
"Leave me,' the wounded man grunted. "Leave me, too bad… But save her… by the Gods, save her… The princess… Oh… Find her, Geralt."
"Lie still, dammit! I'll knock something up and haul you out."
Frexinet coughed hard and spat again; a viscous, stretching thread of blood hung from his chin. The Witcher cursed, vaulted out of the hollow and looked around. He needed two young saplings. He moved quickly towards the edge of the clearing, where he had seen a clump of alders.
Something whistled before thudding into a trunk at head-height—a hawk-fletched arrow. The angle of its ashen shaft indicated where it'd been shot from; about four-dozen paces away where a fallen tree formed a hollow, its roots still sticking into the air and gripping a clump of dark dirt.
Sending Alaster a death-glare, the type that promised, well, death if the kid so much as breathed wrong, he slowly stuck his hands into the air. "Ceádmil! Vá an Eithné meáth e Duén Canell! Esseá Gwynbleidd!" He shouted, enunciating each word slowly.
This time, they heard the bowstring's twang before they saw the arrow, because it was shot for them to hear. It soared upwards, reached its apex and fell in a curve. The arrow plunged into the moss exactly two paces from where Geralt stood. Immediately, a second joined it, near close enough to skewer his foot.
"Meáth Eithné!" he called again, before the next arrow found purchase in his skull. "Esseá Gwynbleidd!"
"Gláeddyv vort!" Came a voice like a breath of wind.
Geralt breathed like someone pardoned. He wasted no time undoing his sword-buckle, drawing the sheathed blade away from himself and casting it away. He motioned for Alastar to do the same.
The boy did as he was told, though not without a grimace of displeasure. His own sword was almost as big as he was, though it wasn't even a longsword proper.
A second dryad emerged noiselessly from behind a fir trunk wrapped around with juniper bushes, no more than ten paces from them. Although she was small and very slim, the trunk seemed thinner. Her outfit was a patchwork which accentuated her shapely form, sewn weirdly from scraps of fabric in numerous shades of green and brown, strewn with leaves and pieces of bark. Her hair, tied with a black scarf around her forehead, was olive green and her face was criss-crossed with stripes painted using walnut-shell dye. Naturally, her bowstring was taut and she was aiming an arrow at them.
"Eithné—" Geralt began, but a commanding 'Tháess aep!' made him fall silent, standing motionless, holding his arms away from his trunk.
The dryad did not lower her bow. "Dunca!" she cried. "Braenn! Caemm vort!"
The one who had shot the arrows earlier darted out from the blackthorn and slipped over the upturned trunk, nimbly clearing the depression. Although there was a pile of dry branches in it there was no sound of it snapping beneath her feet. The three males heard a faint murmur close behind, something like the rustling of leaves in the wind. There was a third. It was that one, dashing out from the woods, who picked up their swords. Her hair was the colour of honey and was tied up with a band of bulrush fibres. A quiver full of arrows swung on her back.
The furthest one approached the tree throw swiftly. Her outfit was identical to that of her companions. She wore a garland woven from clover and heather on her dull, brick-red hair. She was holding a bow, not bent, but with an arrow nocked. "T'en thesse in meáth aep Eithné llev?" she asked, coming over. Her voice was extremely melodious and her eyes huge and black. "Ess' Gwynbleidd?"
"Aé… aesseá…" Geralt began, but the words in the Brokilon dialect, which sounded like singing in the dryad's mouth, stuck in his throat and made his lips itchy. "Do none of you know the Common Speech? I don't speak your—"
"An' váill. Vort llinge," she cut him off.
"I am Gwynbleidd. White Wolf. Lady Eithné knows me. I am travelling to her as an envoy. I have been in Brokilon before. In Duén Canell."
"Gwynbleidd." The redhead narrowed her eyes. "Vatt'ghern?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "I'm a witcher."
The olive-haired one snorted angrily, but lowered her bow. The red-haired one looked at him with eyes wide open, but her face—smeared with green stripes—was quite motionless, expressionless, like that of a statue. The immobility meant her face could not be categorised as pretty or ugly. Instead of such classification, it was more apt to describe her as indifferent and heartless, not to say cruel, but there was not much sense in trying to humanize older dryads. He knew she was old—despite appearances, she was much, much older than him.
They stood in indecisive silence. Geralt heard Frexinet moaning, groaning and coughing. The red-haired one must also have heard, but her face did not even twitch. The Witcher rested his hands on his hips. "There's a wounded man over there in the tree hole," he said calmly. "He will die if he doesn't receive aid."
"Tháess aep!" the olive-haired one snapped, bending her bow and aiming the arrowhead straight at his face.
"Will you let him die like a dog?" he said, not raising his voice. "Will you leave him to drown slowly in his own blood? In that case better to put him out of his misery."
"Be silent!" the dryad barked, switching to the Common Speech. But she lowered her bow and released the tension on the bowstring. She looked at the other questioningly. The red-haired one nodded, indicating the tree hollow. The olive-haired one ran over, quickly and silently.
"We want to see Lady Eithné," Geralt repeated. "I'm on a diplomatic mission—"
"She," the red-haired one pointed to the honey-haired one, "will lead you to Duén Canell. Go." She sent a glance toward Alaster, not denying him entry.
"Frex— And the wounded man?" Geralt asked.
The dryad looked at him, squinting. She was still fiddling with the nocked arrow. "Do not worry," she said. "Go. She will lead you there."
'But—"
"Va'en vort!" She cut him off, her lips tightening.
Given no other option, he turned towards the one with the hair the colour of honey. She seemed the youngest of the three, but he might have been mistaken. He noticed she had blue eyes. "Then let us go."
"Yes," the honey-coloured haired one said softly. After a short moment of hesitation she handed him his sword, and Alaster's as well. "Let us go."
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Be silent." Was her response. She moved very swiftly through the dense forest, not looking back.
Geralt had to exert himself to keep up with her. He knew the dryad was doing it deliberately, knew that she wanted the men following her to get stuck, groaning, in the undergrowth, or to fall to the ground exhausted, incapable of going on. She did not know, of course, that she was dealing with a witcher, not a man. And Alaster, well, he was no witcher, but the boy's stamina was abnormal.
The young woman–Geralt now knew she was not a pure-blood dryad–suddenly stopped and turned around. He saw her chest heaving powerfully beneath her short, dappled jacket, saw that she was having difficulty stopping herself from breathing through her mouth. "Shall we slow down?" he suggested with a smile.
"Yeá." She looked at him with hostility. "Aeén esseáth Sidh?"
"No, we're not elves. What is your name?"
"Braenn," she answered, marching on, but now at a slower pace, not trying to outdistance them. They walked alongside each other, close. He smelled the scent of her sweat, the ordinary sweat of a young woman. The sweat of dryads carried the scent of delicate willow leaves crushed in the hands.
"And what were you called before?"
She glanced at him and suddenly grimaced; he thought she would become annoyed or order him to be silent. She did not. "I don't remember," she said reluctantly.
He did not think it was true. She did not look older than sixteen and she could not have been in Brokilon for more than six or seven years. Had she come earlier, as a very young child or simply a baby, he would not now be able to see the human in her. Blue eyes and naturally fair hair did occur among dryads. Dryad children, conceived in ritual mating with elves or humans, inherited organic traits exclusively from their mothers, and were always girls. Extremely infrequently, as a rule, in a subsequent generation a child would nonetheless occasionally be born with the eyes or hair of its anonymous male progenitor. But Geralt was certain that Braenn did not have a single drop of dryad blood. And anyway, it was not especially important. Blood or not, she was now a dryad.
"And what," she looked askance at him, ignoring Alaster trudging behind. "do they call you?"
"Gwynbleidd."
She nodded. "Then we shall go… Gwynbleidd."
They walked more slowly than before, but still briskly. Braenn, of course, knew Brokilon; had they been alone, Geralt and his ward would have been unable to maintain the pace or the right direction. Braenn stole through the barricade of dense forest using winding, concealed paths, clearing gorges, running nimbly across fallen trees as though they were bridges, confidently splashing through glistening stretches of swamp, green from duckweed, which the Witcher would not have dared to tread on. He would have lost hours, if not days, skirting around.
Braenn's presence did not only protect them from the savagery of the forest; there were places where the dryad slowed down, walking extremely cautiously, feeling the path with her foot and holding them by the hands. He knew the reason. Brokilon's traps were legendary; people talked about pits full of sharpened stakes, about booby-trapped bows, about falling trees, about the terrible urchin—a spiked ball on a rope, which, falling suddenly, swept the path clear. There were also places where Braenn would stop and whistle melodiously, and answering whistles would come from the undergrowth. There were other places where she would stop with her hand on the arrows in her quiver, signalling for him to be silent, and wait, tense, until whatever was rustling in the thicket moved away.
In spite of their fast pace, they had to stop for the night. Braenn chose an excellent spot; a hill onto which thermal updrafts carried gusts of warm air. They slept on dried bracken, very close to one another, in dryad custom. In the middle of the night Braenn hugged him close. And nothing more. He hugged her back. And nothing more. She was a dryad. The point was to keep warm. Though, that didn't stop Alaster, who kept to himself, shivering against a tree-trunk, from giving him a displeased look the whole night through.
"No sense in lingering here." He said gruffly, standing. "Just take care you stay behind me so you won't end up like that."
His companion, a boy in his own right and even younger than the corpse, stifled a yawn. He fell into step behind his guardian without a word.
"Hopefully we're not too late." Geralt muttered—the man's name, if he could be called one. He didn't sound too optimistic.
"I don't get it." The boy said, as if to himself, when they'd covered some distance. The forest was dense, and gaining ground was arduous. Every gap between the large trees was filled in by a dozen smaller ones—birches, alders, hornbeams, brambles, junipers, ferns and the like. Insects buzzed around their ears, birds flitted above their heads, beetles and spiders scuttled underfoot. "Why come test your luck, hoping you won't get shot-to-shit in this stuffy forest? If it were me, I'd have chalked her up as a lost cause. Having a short life-expectancy is part of being a royal anyway."
"Shut it." Geralt said, his tone tinged with annoyance. He'd have left the little bastard behind if he could've helped it, but there wasn't anyone to look after him. As much trouble as it was, he knew Alaster would get himself into ten times the trouble if left to his own devices. Still, it was unfair. He wasn't the one who'd picked up the brat, so why was it suddenly his problem?
Unfortunately, Geralt's wish wasn't to be fulfilled. It wasn't long before they came across a fresh set of corpses, almost hidden under the brush. If it weren't for a single sword sticking upward, its scratched blade reflecting the sunlight, they might've walked right past them.
For better or worse, the sword belonged to a man instead of a boy this time. His simple clothing, colored a practical dun, indicated his low status. Not counting the bloodstains—courtesy of two expertly-fletched arrow shafts sticking from his chest—were clean and new. A third body was prone nearby, dressed in a leather jerkin and short, green cape. The ground around his feet was churned up, moss and pine needles furrowed down to the sand—his death hadn't been as quick as the other two's.
They were still gathering their wits when a low groan sounded in the little clearing. Geralt was there in an eyeblink, gripping a fourth man under the shoulder, slowly sitting him upright. His powerfully-built figure with a black, curly head of hair and beard contrasted with his deathly pallor. His deerskin kaftan was red with blood, but he was alive and conscious. "Geralt…" he groaned. "O, ye gods, I must be dreaming…"
"Frexinet!" Geralt said in astonishment. "You, here?"
"Yes, me! Ah, fuck, it hurts…"
"Don't move." Geralt commanded, gesturing for Alaster to stand clear. "Where were you hit? I don't see an arrow."
"It passed… right through." Frexinet huffed. "I broke off the arrowhead… and pulled it out. Listen, Geralt—"
"Damn you, be quiet. You have a punctured lung, you'll choke on your own blood if you keep yapping. What the bloody hell are you doing in dryad territory? Nobody gets out of here alive, I can't believe you didn't know that!"
"Later…" Frexinet groaned and spat blood. "I'll tell you later… Now get me out. Oh, a pox on it. Have a care… Oooooow…"
"I can't do it,' Geralt said, straightening up and looking around. His gaze rested on Alaster for a moment, but a ten-year-old boy wasn't likely to be much help. "You're too heavy."
"Leave me,' the wounded man grunted. "Leave me, too bad… But save her… by the Gods, save her… The princess… Oh… Find her, Geralt."
"Lie still, dammit! I'll knock something up and haul you out."
Frexinet coughed hard and spat again; a viscous, stretching thread of blood hung from his chin. The Witcher cursed, vaulted out of the hollow and looked around. He needed two young saplings. He moved quickly towards the edge of the clearing, where he had seen a clump of alders.
Something whistled before thudding into a trunk at head-height—a hawk-fletched arrow. The angle of its ashen shaft indicated where it'd been shot from; about four-dozen paces away where a fallen tree formed a hollow, its roots still sticking into the air and gripping a clump of dark dirt.
Sending Alaster a death-glare, the type that promised, well, death if the kid so much as breathed wrong, he slowly stuck his hands into the air. "Ceádmil! Vá an Eithné meáth e Duén Canell! Esseá Gwynbleidd!" He shouted, enunciating each word slowly.
This time, they heard the bowstring's twang before they saw the arrow, because it was shot for them to hear. It soared upwards, reached its apex and fell in a curve. The arrow plunged into the moss exactly two paces from where Geralt stood. Immediately, a second joined it, near close enough to skewer his foot.
"Meáth Eithné!" he called again, before the next arrow found purchase in his skull. "Esseá Gwynbleidd!"
"Gláeddyv vort!" Came a voice like a breath of wind.
Geralt breathed like someone pardoned. He wasted no time undoing his sword-buckle, drawing the sheathed blade away from himself and casting it away. He motioned for Alastar to do the same.
The boy did as he was told, though not without a grimace of displeasure. His own sword was almost as big as he was, though it wasn't even a longsword proper.
A second dryad emerged noiselessly from behind a fir trunk wrapped around with juniper bushes, no more than ten paces from them. Although she was small and very slim, the trunk seemed thinner. Her outfit was a patchwork which accentuated her shapely form, sewn weirdly from scraps of fabric in numerous shades of green and brown, strewn with leaves and pieces of bark. Her hair, tied with a black scarf around her forehead, was olive green and her face was criss-crossed with stripes painted using walnut-shell dye. Naturally, her bowstring was taut and she was aiming an arrow at them.
"Eithné—" Geralt began, but a commanding 'Tháess aep!' made him fall silent, standing motionless, holding his arms away from his trunk.
The dryad did not lower her bow. "Dunca!" she cried. "Braenn! Caemm vort!"
The one who had shot the arrows earlier darted out from the blackthorn and slipped over the upturned trunk, nimbly clearing the depression. Although there was a pile of dry branches in it there was no sound of it snapping beneath her feet. The three males heard a faint murmur close behind, something like the rustling of leaves in the wind. There was a third. It was that one, dashing out from the woods, who picked up their swords. Her hair was the colour of honey and was tied up with a band of bulrush fibres. A quiver full of arrows swung on her back.
The furthest one approached the tree throw swiftly. Her outfit was identical to that of her companions. She wore a garland woven from clover and heather on her dull, brick-red hair. She was holding a bow, not bent, but with an arrow nocked. "T'en thesse in meáth aep Eithné llev?" she asked, coming over. Her voice was extremely melodious and her eyes huge and black. "Ess' Gwynbleidd?"
"Aé… aesseá…" Geralt began, but the words in the Brokilon dialect, which sounded like singing in the dryad's mouth, stuck in his throat and made his lips itchy. "Do none of you know the Common Speech? I don't speak your—"
"An' váill. Vort llinge," she cut him off.
"I am Gwynbleidd. White Wolf. Lady Eithné knows me. I am travelling to her as an envoy. I have been in Brokilon before. In Duén Canell."
"Gwynbleidd." The redhead narrowed her eyes. "Vatt'ghern?"
"Yes," he confirmed. "I'm a witcher."
The olive-haired one snorted angrily, but lowered her bow. The red-haired one looked at him with eyes wide open, but her face—smeared with green stripes—was quite motionless, expressionless, like that of a statue. The immobility meant her face could not be categorised as pretty or ugly. Instead of such classification, it was more apt to describe her as indifferent and heartless, not to say cruel, but there was not much sense in trying to humanize older dryads. He knew she was old—despite appearances, she was much, much older than him.
They stood in indecisive silence. Geralt heard Frexinet moaning, groaning and coughing. The red-haired one must also have heard, but her face did not even twitch. The Witcher rested his hands on his hips. "There's a wounded man over there in the tree hole," he said calmly. "He will die if he doesn't receive aid."
"Tháess aep!" the olive-haired one snapped, bending her bow and aiming the arrowhead straight at his face.
"Will you let him die like a dog?" he said, not raising his voice. "Will you leave him to drown slowly in his own blood? In that case better to put him out of his misery."
"Be silent!" the dryad barked, switching to the Common Speech. But she lowered her bow and released the tension on the bowstring. She looked at the other questioningly. The red-haired one nodded, indicating the tree hollow. The olive-haired one ran over, quickly and silently.
"We want to see Lady Eithné," Geralt repeated. "I'm on a diplomatic mission—"
"She," the red-haired one pointed to the honey-haired one, "will lead you to Duén Canell. Go." She sent a glance toward Alaster, not denying him entry.
"Frex— And the wounded man?" Geralt asked.
The dryad looked at him, squinting. She was still fiddling with the nocked arrow. "Do not worry," she said. "Go. She will lead you there."
'But—"
"Va'en vort!" She cut him off, her lips tightening.
Given no other option, he turned towards the one with the hair the colour of honey. She seemed the youngest of the three, but he might have been mistaken. He noticed she had blue eyes. "Then let us go."
"Yes," the honey-coloured haired one said softly. After a short moment of hesitation she handed him his sword, and Alaster's as well. "Let us go."
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Be silent." Was her response. She moved very swiftly through the dense forest, not looking back.
Geralt had to exert himself to keep up with her. He knew the dryad was doing it deliberately, knew that she wanted the men following her to get stuck, groaning, in the undergrowth, or to fall to the ground exhausted, incapable of going on. She did not know, of course, that she was dealing with a witcher, not a man. And Alaster, well, he was no witcher, but the boy's stamina was abnormal.
The young woman–Geralt now knew she was not a pure-blood dryad–suddenly stopped and turned around. He saw her chest heaving powerfully beneath her short, dappled jacket, saw that she was having difficulty stopping herself from breathing through her mouth. "Shall we slow down?" he suggested with a smile.
"Yeá." She looked at him with hostility. "Aeén esseáth Sidh?"
"No, we're not elves. What is your name?"
"Braenn," she answered, marching on, but now at a slower pace, not trying to outdistance them. They walked alongside each other, close. He smelled the scent of her sweat, the ordinary sweat of a young woman. The sweat of dryads carried the scent of delicate willow leaves crushed in the hands.
"And what were you called before?"
She glanced at him and suddenly grimaced; he thought she would become annoyed or order him to be silent. She did not. "I don't remember," she said reluctantly.
He did not think it was true. She did not look older than sixteen and she could not have been in Brokilon for more than six or seven years. Had she come earlier, as a very young child or simply a baby, he would not now be able to see the human in her. Blue eyes and naturally fair hair did occur among dryads. Dryad children, conceived in ritual mating with elves or humans, inherited organic traits exclusively from their mothers, and were always girls. Extremely infrequently, as a rule, in a subsequent generation a child would nonetheless occasionally be born with the eyes or hair of its anonymous male progenitor. But Geralt was certain that Braenn did not have a single drop of dryad blood. And anyway, it was not especially important. Blood or not, she was now a dryad.
"And what," she looked askance at him, ignoring Alaster trudging behind. "do they call you?"
"Gwynbleidd."
She nodded. "Then we shall go… Gwynbleidd."
They walked more slowly than before, but still briskly. Braenn, of course, knew Brokilon; had they been alone, Geralt and his ward would have been unable to maintain the pace or the right direction. Braenn stole through the barricade of dense forest using winding, concealed paths, clearing gorges, running nimbly across fallen trees as though they were bridges, confidently splashing through glistening stretches of swamp, green from duckweed, which the Witcher would not have dared to tread on. He would have lost hours, if not days, skirting around.
Braenn's presence did not only protect them from the savagery of the forest; there were places where the dryad slowed down, walking extremely cautiously, feeling the path with her foot and holding them by the hands. He knew the reason. Brokilon's traps were legendary; people talked about pits full of sharpened stakes, about booby-trapped bows, about falling trees, about the terrible urchin—a spiked ball on a rope, which, falling suddenly, swept the path clear. There were also places where Braenn would stop and whistle melodiously, and answering whistles would come from the undergrowth. There were other places where she would stop with her hand on the arrows in her quiver, signalling for him to be silent, and wait, tense, until whatever was rustling in the thicket moved away.
In spite of their fast pace, they had to stop for the night. Braenn chose an excellent spot; a hill onto which thermal updrafts carried gusts of warm air. They slept on dried bracken, very close to one another, in dryad custom. In the middle of the night Braenn hugged him close. And nothing more. He hugged her back. And nothing more. She was a dryad. The point was to keep warm. Though, that didn't stop Alaster, who kept to himself, shivering against a tree-trunk, from giving him a displeased look the whole night through.
Chapter 2
New
They passed through a belt of sparsely forested hills, creeping cautiously across small valleys full of mist, moving through broad, grassy glades, and across clearings of wind-felled trees. Braenn stopped once again and looked around. She had apparently lost her way, but Geralt knew that was impossible. Taking advantage of a break in the march, however, he sat down on a fallen tree. And then he heard a scream. Shrill. High-pitched. Desperate.
Braenn knelt down in a flash, at once drawing two arrows from her quiver. She seized one in her teeth and nocked the other, bent her bow, taking aim blindly through the bushes towards the sound of the voice.
"Don't shoot!" he cried. He leaped over the tree trunk and forced his way through the brush. A small creature in a short grey jacket was standing in a small clearing, at the foot of a rocky cliff, with its back pressed against the trunk of a withered hornbeam. Something was moving slowly about five paces in front of it, parting the grass. That thing was about twelve feet long and was dark brown. At first Geralt thought it was a snake. But then he noticed the wriggling, yellow, hooked limbs and flat segments of the long thorax and realised it was not a snake. It was something much more sinister.
The creature hugging the tree cried out shrilly. The immense myriapod raised above the grass long, twitching feelers with which it sensed odours and warmth. "Don't move!" The Witcher yelled and stamped to attract the scolopendromorph's attention. But the myriapod did not react, for its feelers had already caught the scent of the nearer victim. The monster wriggled its limbs, coiled itself up like an 'S' and moved forward. Its bright yellow limbs rippled through grass, evenly, like the oars of a galley.
"Yghern!" Braenn yelled.
Geralt hurtled into the clearing in two bounds, jerking his sword from its scabbard on his back as he ran, and in full flight struck the petrified creature beneath the tree with his hip, shoving it aside into some brambles. The scolopendromorph rustled the grass, wriggled its legs and attacked, raising its anterior segments, its venom-dripping pincers chattering. Geralt danced, leaped over the flat body and slashed it with his sword from a half-turn, aiming at a vulnerable spot between the armoured plates on its body.
The monster was too swift, however, and the sword struck the chitinous shell, without cutting through it; the thick carpet of moss absorbed the blow. Geralt dodged, but not deftly enough. The scolopendromorph wound the posterior part of its body around his legs with enormous strength. The Witcher fell, rolled over and tried to pull himself free. In vain.
The myriapod flexed and turned around to reach him with its pincers, and at the same time fiercely dug its claws into the tree and wrapped itself around it. Right then an arrow hissed above Geralt's head, penetrating the armour with a crack, pinning the creature to the trunk. The scolopendromorph writhed, broke the arrow and freed itself, but was struck at once by two more. The Witcher kicked the thrashing abdomen off and rolled away to the side.
Braenn, kneeling, was shooting at an astonishing rate, sending arrow after arrow into the creature. The myriapod was breaking the shafts to free itself, but each successive arrow would pin it to the trunk again. It snapped its flat, shiny, dark-red maw and clanged its pincers by the places which had been pierced by the arrows, instinctively trying to reach the enemy which was wounding it.
Geralt leaped at it from the side, took a big swing and hacked with his sword, ending the fight with one blow. The tree acted like an executioner's block.
Braenn approached slowly, an arrow nocked, kicked the body writhing in the grass, its limbs thrashing around, and spat on it.
"Thanks," the Witcher said, crushing the beast's severed head with blows of his heel.
"Eh?"
"You saved my life."
The dryad looked at him. There was neither understanding nor emotion in her expression. "Yghern," she said, nudging the writhing body with a boot. "It broke my arrows."
"You saved my and the boy's life, and that little dryad's," Geralt repeated. He looked around. "Where the bloody hell are they?"
Braenn deftly brushed aside the bramble thicket. "See for yourself, Gwynbleidd."
Alaster was standing there with his hand on his sheathed sword. He looked at another, younger figure hiding amongst the branches and leaves. The little thing was neither dryad nor elf, or sylph or puck or halfling. It was a quite ordinary human girl, if a very pale one with pale eyes and equally pale hair. And yet, in the centre of Brokilon, it was most extraordinary to come across and ordinary, human little girl.
"Think you found your princess." Alaster muttered. "We can finally get out of this bug-infested—" he stopped, gaze flitting cautiously to the dryad.
Geralt blinked. Then he sighed. "What's your name, girl? How did you get here?"
She did not reply, her eyes going warily from the boy to him.
"Don't be afraid," he said, sitting slowly on his haunches. He held out a hand.
"I'm not afraid," she mumbled indistinctly. It was a lie.
"Let us get out of here," Braenn suddenly said, looking all around. "Where there is one yghern, you can usually expect another. And I have few arrows now."
The girl looked at her, opened her mouth and wiped it with the back of her hand, smearing dust over her face.
"What are you doing… in this forest?" Geralt asked again, leaning forward. "How did you get here?"
The girl lowered her head and sniffed loudly.
"Cat got your tongue? Who are you, I said? What's your name?"
"Ciri," she said, sniffing.
Geralt was quiet for a moment. He turned around. Braenn, examining her bow, glanced at him. "Listen, Braenn…"
"What?"
"Is it possible… Is it possible she… has escaped from Duén Canell?"
Braenn looked at him oddly.
"Don't play dumb," he said, annoyed. "I know you abduct little girls. And you? What, did you fall from the sky into Brokilon? I'm asking if it's possible…"
"No," the dryad cut him off. "I have never seen her before."
Geralt looked at the little girl. Her ashen-grey hair was dishevelled, full of pine needles and small leaves, but smelled of cleanliness, not smoke, nor the cowshed, nor tallow. Her hands, although incredibly dirty, were small and delicate, without scars or calluses. The boy's clothes, the jacket with a red hood she had on, did not indicate anything, but her high boots were made of soft, expensive calfskin. No, she was certainly not a village child.
He caught Alaster staring at him. Damned Rat, listened to Vesimir's blabbering and now he thought he knew something. Better he minded his own business. "Where are you from? I'm asking you, you scamp." Geralt asked with a scowl.
"How dare you talk to me like that!" The little girl lifted her head haughtily and stamped her foot. The soft moss completely spoiled the effect.
"Ha," the Witcher said, and smiled. "A princess, indeed. At least in speech, for your appearance is wretched. You're from Verden, aren't you? Do you know you're being looked for? Don't worry, I'll deliver you home. Listen, Braenn…" The moment he looked away the girl turned very quickly on her heel and ran off through the forest, across the gentle hillside.
"Bloede dungh!" the dryad yelled, reaching for her quiver. "Caemm aere!"
The little girl, stumbling, rushed blindly through the forest, crunching over dry branches.
"Stop!" shouted Geralt. "Where are you bloody going!?"
Braenn bent her bow in a flash. The arrow hissed venomously, describing a flat parabola, and the arrowhead thudded into the tree trunk, almost brushing the little girl's hair. The girl cringed and flattened herself to the ground.
"You bloody fool," the Witcher hissed, hurrying over to the dryad. Braenn deftly drew another arrow from her quiver. "You might have killed her!"
"This is Brokilon," she said proudly.
"She's only a child!"
"What of it?"
He looked at the arrow's shaft. It had striped fletchings made from a pheasant's flight feathers dyed yellow in a decoction of tree bark. He did not say a word. He turned around and went quickly into the forest. The little girl was lying beneath the tree, cowering, cautiously raising her head and looking at the arrow stuck into the tree. She heard his steps and leaped to her feet, but he reached her with a single bound and seized her by the red hood of her jacket. She turned her head and looked at him, then at his hand, holding her hood. He released her.
"Why did you run away?"
"None of your business," she sniffed. "Leave me alone, you, you—"
"Foolish brat," he hissed furiously. "This is Brokilon. Wasn't the myriapod enough? You wouldn't last till morning in this forest. Haven't you got it yet?"
"Don't touch me!" she yelled. "You peasant! I am a princess, so you'd better be careful!"
"Well, you heard her." Alaster said snarkily. "Better do as she says, or it'll be off with our heads. I'm sure she'll be fine on her own."
"Quiet, Rat. And you, girl—you're more a foolish imp than a princess! Princesses don't roam through forests alone. Princesses have clean noses."
"I'll have you both drawn and quartered! And her too!" The girl wiped her nose with her hand and glared at the approaching dryad.
Braenn snorted with laughter.
"Alright, enough of this," the Witcher cut her off. "Why were you running away, Your Highness? And where to? What were you afraid of?"
She said nothing, and sniffed.
"Very well, as you wish," he winked at the dryad. "We're going. If you want to stay alone in the forest, that's your choice. But the next time a yghern attacks you, don't yell. It doesn't befit a princess. A princess dies without even a squeal, having first wiped her snotty nose. Let's go, Braenn. Farewell, Your Highness."
"W… wait."
"Aha?"
"I'm coming with you."
"We are greatly honoured. Aren't we, Braenn?"
"I'm not."
"Nobody asked you."
"But you won't take me to Kistrin again? Do you swear?" Ciri asked, sniffing again.
"Who is—?" he began. "Oh, dammit. Kistrin. Prince Kistrin? The son of King Ervyll of Verden?"
The little girl pouted her little lips and turned away.
"Enough of these trifles," said Braenn grimly. "Let us march on."
"Hold on, hold on." The Witcher straightened up and looked down at the dryad. "Our plans are changing somewhat."
"Eh?" Braenn said, raising her eyebrows.
"Lady Eithné can wait. I have to take the little one home. To Verden."
The dryad squinted and reached for her quiver. "You're not going anywhere. Nor is she."
The Witcher's face turned grim. "Be careful, Braenn," he said. "I'm not that kid whose eye you speared with an arrow from the undergrowth."
"Bloede arss!" she hissed, raising her bow. "You're going to Duén Canell, and so is she! Not to Verden!"
"No. Not to Verden!" the mousy-haired girl said, throwing herself at the dryad and pressing herself against her slim thigh. "I'm going with you! And he can go to Verden by himself, to silly old Kistrin, if he wants!"
Braenn did not even look at her, did not take her eyes off Geralt. But she lowered her bow. "Ess dungh!" she said, spitting at his feet. "Very well! Then go on your way! We'll see how you fare. You'll kiss an arrow before you leave Brokilon."
She wasn't wrong. Without her, the two of them wouldn't get out of Brokilon nor reach Duén Canell. Perhaps he'd manage to persuade Eithné… "Very well, Braenn," Geralt said placatingly. "Have it your way. We shall all go to Duén Canell. To Lady Eithné."
The dryad muttered something under her breath and unnocked the arrow. "To the road, then," she said, straightening her hairband. "We have tarried too long."
"Ooow…" the little girl yelped as she took a step.
"What's the matter?"
"I've done something… To my leg."
"Wait, Braenn! Come here, scamp, I'll carry you pick-a-back." She was warm and smelt like a wet sparrow. "What's your name, princess? I've forgotten."
"My feet are sore too—" Alaster grumbled.
"Too bad. Say it again, girl. Your name."
"Ciri." She said, glancing at the boy and giving him a haughty look.
"And your estates, where do they lie, if I may ask?" Geralt said after a pause.
"I won't tell," she grunted. "I won't tell, and that's that."
"I'll get by. Don't wriggle or sniff right by my ear. What were you doing in Brokilon? Did you get lost? Did you lose your way?"
"Not a chance! I never get lost."
"Did you run away from Kistrin? From Nastrog Castle? Before or after the wedding?"
"How did you know?" She sniffed, intent.
He ignored her question. "Why did you run away to Brokilon, of all places? Weren't there any safer directions?"
"I couldn't control my stupid horse."
"You're lying, princess. Looking at your size, the most you could ride is a cat. And a gentle one at that."
"I was riding with Marck. Sir Voymir's esquire. But the horse fell in the forest and broke its leg. And we lost our way."
"You said that never happens to you."
"He got lost, not me. It was foggy. And we lost our way."
You got lost, thought Geralt. Sir Voymir's poor esquire, who had the misfortune to happen upon Braenn and her companions. A young stripling, who had probably never known a woman, helped the scamp escape, because he'd heard a lot of knightly stories about virgins being forced to marry. He helped her escape, to fall to a dryad's dyed arrow—one who probably hasn't known a man herself. But already knows how to kill.
"I asked you if you bolted from Nastrog Castle before or after the wedding?"
"I just scarpered and it's none of your business," she grunted. "Grandmamma told me I had to go there and meet him. That Kistrin. Just meet him. But that father of his, that big-bellied king…"
"Ervyll."
"… kept on: 'the wedding, the wedding'. But I don't want him. That Kistrin. Grandmamma said—"
"Is Prince Kistrin so revolting?"
"I don't want him," Ciri proudly declared, sniffing loudly. "He's fat, stupid and his breath smells. Before I went there they showed me a painting, but he wasn't fat in the painting. I don't want a husband like that. I don't want a husband at all."
"Ciri," the Witcher said hesitantly. "Kistrin is still a child, like you. In a few years he might turn into a handsome young man."
"Then they can send me another painting, in a few years," she snorted. "And him too. Because he told me that I was much prettier in the painting they showed him. And he confessed that he loves Alvina, a lady-in-waiting and he wants to be a knight. See? He doesn't want me and I don't want him. So what use is a wedding?"
Alaster snickered. "So he didn't want you. Can't imagine why."
"What do you know, you peasant, you?" Ciri said angrily. "If I had a serf as cheeky, I'd have hanged him upside down from the rafters until his eyes popped out—!"
"Ignored him." Geralt said, interrupting. "Ciri, he's a prince and you're a princess. Princes and princesses marry like that, that's how it is. That's the custom."
"You sound like all the rest. You think that just because I'm little you can lie to me."
"I'm not lying."
"Yes you are."
Geralt said nothing. Braenn, walking in front of them, turned around, probably surprised by the silence. She shrugged and set off.
"Which way are we going?" Ciri asked glumly. "I want to know! Answer, when I ask a question!" she said menacingly when he didn't respond, backing up the order with a loud sniff. "Do you know… who's sitting on you? I'll bite you in the ear!"
The Witcher had had enough. He pulled the girl off his back and put her on the ground. "Now listen, you brat," he said harshly, struggling with his belt buckle. "In a minute I'll put you across my knee, pull down your britches and tan your backside. No one will stop me doing it, because this isn't the royal court, and I'm not your flunkey or servant. You'll soon regret you didn't stay in Nastrog. You'll soon see it's better being a princess than a snot-nosed kid who got lost in the forest. Because, it's true, a princess is allowed to act obnoxiously. And no one thrashes a princess's backside with a belt."
Braenn watched dispassionately, leaning against a tree. Alaster looked on expectantly.
"Well?" the Witcher asked, wrapping his belt around his wrist. "Are we going to behave with dignity and temperance? If not, we shall set about tanning Her Majesty's hide. Well? What's it to be?"
The little girl snivelled and sniffed, then eagerly nodded.
"Are you going to be good, princess?"
"Yes," she mumbled.
"Gloaming will soon fall," the dryad said. "Let us make haste, Gwynbleidd."
The forest thinned out. They walked through a sandy young forest, across moors, and through fog-cloaked meadows with herds of red deer grazing. It was growing cooler.
"Noble lord…" Ciri began after a long, long silence.
"My name is Geralt. What's the matter?"
"I'm awffy, awffy hungry."
"We'll stop in a moment. It'll be dark soon."
"I can't go on," she snivelled. "I haven't eaten since—"
"Stop whining." He reached into a saddlebag and took out a piece of fatback, a small round of white cheese and two apples. "Have that."
"What's that yellow stuff?"
"Fatback."
"I won't eat that," she grunted.
"Give it here." Alaster said, holding out his hand.
Ciri hesitated, then she threw it at his feet so he wouldn't catch it. He did, and stuffed it in his mouth with a gloating smile.
"Eat the cheese. And an apple. Just one." Geralt said.
"Why only one."
"Don't wriggle. Have both."
"Geralt?"
"Mhm?"
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Food'll do you good."
"I didn't… Not for that. That too, but… You saved me from that centipede… Ugh… I almost died of fright."
"You almost died," he confirmed seriously. You almost died in an extremely painful and hideous way, he thought. "But you ought to thank Braenn."
"What is she?"
"A dryad."
"An eerie wife?"
Alaster snorted.
"Yes." Geralt said before they could start a quarrel.
"So she's… They kidnap children! She's kidnapped us? Hey, but you aren't small. But why does she speak so strangely?"
"That's just her way, it's not important. What's important is how she shoots. Don't forget to thank her when we stop."
"I won't forget," Ciri replied.
"Don't wriggle, future Princess of Verden, ma'am."
"I'm not going to be a princess," she muttered.
"Very well, very well. You won't be a princess. You'll become a hamster and live in a burrow."
"No I won't! You don't know anything!"
"Don't squeak in my ear. And don't forget about the strap!"
"I'm not going to be a princess. I'm going to be…"
"Yes? What?"
"It's a secret."
"Oh, yes, a secret. Great." He raised his head. "What is it, Braenn?"
The dryad had stopped. She shrugged and looked at the sky. "I cannot go on," she said softly. "Neither can you, I warrant, with her on your back, Gwynbleidd. We shall stop here. It will darken soon."
Braenn knelt down in a flash, at once drawing two arrows from her quiver. She seized one in her teeth and nocked the other, bent her bow, taking aim blindly through the bushes towards the sound of the voice.
"Don't shoot!" he cried. He leaped over the tree trunk and forced his way through the brush. A small creature in a short grey jacket was standing in a small clearing, at the foot of a rocky cliff, with its back pressed against the trunk of a withered hornbeam. Something was moving slowly about five paces in front of it, parting the grass. That thing was about twelve feet long and was dark brown. At first Geralt thought it was a snake. But then he noticed the wriggling, yellow, hooked limbs and flat segments of the long thorax and realised it was not a snake. It was something much more sinister.
The creature hugging the tree cried out shrilly. The immense myriapod raised above the grass long, twitching feelers with which it sensed odours and warmth. "Don't move!" The Witcher yelled and stamped to attract the scolopendromorph's attention. But the myriapod did not react, for its feelers had already caught the scent of the nearer victim. The monster wriggled its limbs, coiled itself up like an 'S' and moved forward. Its bright yellow limbs rippled through grass, evenly, like the oars of a galley.
"Yghern!" Braenn yelled.
Geralt hurtled into the clearing in two bounds, jerking his sword from its scabbard on his back as he ran, and in full flight struck the petrified creature beneath the tree with his hip, shoving it aside into some brambles. The scolopendromorph rustled the grass, wriggled its legs and attacked, raising its anterior segments, its venom-dripping pincers chattering. Geralt danced, leaped over the flat body and slashed it with his sword from a half-turn, aiming at a vulnerable spot between the armoured plates on its body.
The monster was too swift, however, and the sword struck the chitinous shell, without cutting through it; the thick carpet of moss absorbed the blow. Geralt dodged, but not deftly enough. The scolopendromorph wound the posterior part of its body around his legs with enormous strength. The Witcher fell, rolled over and tried to pull himself free. In vain.
The myriapod flexed and turned around to reach him with its pincers, and at the same time fiercely dug its claws into the tree and wrapped itself around it. Right then an arrow hissed above Geralt's head, penetrating the armour with a crack, pinning the creature to the trunk. The scolopendromorph writhed, broke the arrow and freed itself, but was struck at once by two more. The Witcher kicked the thrashing abdomen off and rolled away to the side.
Braenn, kneeling, was shooting at an astonishing rate, sending arrow after arrow into the creature. The myriapod was breaking the shafts to free itself, but each successive arrow would pin it to the trunk again. It snapped its flat, shiny, dark-red maw and clanged its pincers by the places which had been pierced by the arrows, instinctively trying to reach the enemy which was wounding it.
Geralt leaped at it from the side, took a big swing and hacked with his sword, ending the fight with one blow. The tree acted like an executioner's block.
Braenn approached slowly, an arrow nocked, kicked the body writhing in the grass, its limbs thrashing around, and spat on it.
"Thanks," the Witcher said, crushing the beast's severed head with blows of his heel.
"Eh?"
"You saved my life."
The dryad looked at him. There was neither understanding nor emotion in her expression. "Yghern," she said, nudging the writhing body with a boot. "It broke my arrows."
"You saved my and the boy's life, and that little dryad's," Geralt repeated. He looked around. "Where the bloody hell are they?"
Braenn deftly brushed aside the bramble thicket. "See for yourself, Gwynbleidd."
Alaster was standing there with his hand on his sheathed sword. He looked at another, younger figure hiding amongst the branches and leaves. The little thing was neither dryad nor elf, or sylph or puck or halfling. It was a quite ordinary human girl, if a very pale one with pale eyes and equally pale hair. And yet, in the centre of Brokilon, it was most extraordinary to come across and ordinary, human little girl.
"Think you found your princess." Alaster muttered. "We can finally get out of this bug-infested—" he stopped, gaze flitting cautiously to the dryad.
Geralt blinked. Then he sighed. "What's your name, girl? How did you get here?"
She did not reply, her eyes going warily from the boy to him.
"Don't be afraid," he said, sitting slowly on his haunches. He held out a hand.
"I'm not afraid," she mumbled indistinctly. It was a lie.
"Let us get out of here," Braenn suddenly said, looking all around. "Where there is one yghern, you can usually expect another. And I have few arrows now."
The girl looked at her, opened her mouth and wiped it with the back of her hand, smearing dust over her face.
"What are you doing… in this forest?" Geralt asked again, leaning forward. "How did you get here?"
The girl lowered her head and sniffed loudly.
"Cat got your tongue? Who are you, I said? What's your name?"
"Ciri," she said, sniffing.
Geralt was quiet for a moment. He turned around. Braenn, examining her bow, glanced at him. "Listen, Braenn…"
"What?"
"Is it possible… Is it possible she… has escaped from Duén Canell?"
Braenn looked at him oddly.
"Don't play dumb," he said, annoyed. "I know you abduct little girls. And you? What, did you fall from the sky into Brokilon? I'm asking if it's possible…"
"No," the dryad cut him off. "I have never seen her before."
Geralt looked at the little girl. Her ashen-grey hair was dishevelled, full of pine needles and small leaves, but smelled of cleanliness, not smoke, nor the cowshed, nor tallow. Her hands, although incredibly dirty, were small and delicate, without scars or calluses. The boy's clothes, the jacket with a red hood she had on, did not indicate anything, but her high boots were made of soft, expensive calfskin. No, she was certainly not a village child.
He caught Alaster staring at him. Damned Rat, listened to Vesimir's blabbering and now he thought he knew something. Better he minded his own business. "Where are you from? I'm asking you, you scamp." Geralt asked with a scowl.
"How dare you talk to me like that!" The little girl lifted her head haughtily and stamped her foot. The soft moss completely spoiled the effect.
"Ha," the Witcher said, and smiled. "A princess, indeed. At least in speech, for your appearance is wretched. You're from Verden, aren't you? Do you know you're being looked for? Don't worry, I'll deliver you home. Listen, Braenn…" The moment he looked away the girl turned very quickly on her heel and ran off through the forest, across the gentle hillside.
"Bloede dungh!" the dryad yelled, reaching for her quiver. "Caemm aere!"
The little girl, stumbling, rushed blindly through the forest, crunching over dry branches.
"Stop!" shouted Geralt. "Where are you bloody going!?"
Braenn bent her bow in a flash. The arrow hissed venomously, describing a flat parabola, and the arrowhead thudded into the tree trunk, almost brushing the little girl's hair. The girl cringed and flattened herself to the ground.
"You bloody fool," the Witcher hissed, hurrying over to the dryad. Braenn deftly drew another arrow from her quiver. "You might have killed her!"
"This is Brokilon," she said proudly.
"She's only a child!"
"What of it?"
He looked at the arrow's shaft. It had striped fletchings made from a pheasant's flight feathers dyed yellow in a decoction of tree bark. He did not say a word. He turned around and went quickly into the forest. The little girl was lying beneath the tree, cowering, cautiously raising her head and looking at the arrow stuck into the tree. She heard his steps and leaped to her feet, but he reached her with a single bound and seized her by the red hood of her jacket. She turned her head and looked at him, then at his hand, holding her hood. He released her.
"Why did you run away?"
"None of your business," she sniffed. "Leave me alone, you, you—"
"Foolish brat," he hissed furiously. "This is Brokilon. Wasn't the myriapod enough? You wouldn't last till morning in this forest. Haven't you got it yet?"
"Don't touch me!" she yelled. "You peasant! I am a princess, so you'd better be careful!"
"Well, you heard her." Alaster said snarkily. "Better do as she says, or it'll be off with our heads. I'm sure she'll be fine on her own."
"Quiet, Rat. And you, girl—you're more a foolish imp than a princess! Princesses don't roam through forests alone. Princesses have clean noses."
"I'll have you both drawn and quartered! And her too!" The girl wiped her nose with her hand and glared at the approaching dryad.
Braenn snorted with laughter.
"Alright, enough of this," the Witcher cut her off. "Why were you running away, Your Highness? And where to? What were you afraid of?"
She said nothing, and sniffed.
"Very well, as you wish," he winked at the dryad. "We're going. If you want to stay alone in the forest, that's your choice. But the next time a yghern attacks you, don't yell. It doesn't befit a princess. A princess dies without even a squeal, having first wiped her snotty nose. Let's go, Braenn. Farewell, Your Highness."
"W… wait."
"Aha?"
"I'm coming with you."
"We are greatly honoured. Aren't we, Braenn?"
"I'm not."
"Nobody asked you."
"But you won't take me to Kistrin again? Do you swear?" Ciri asked, sniffing again.
"Who is—?" he began. "Oh, dammit. Kistrin. Prince Kistrin? The son of King Ervyll of Verden?"
The little girl pouted her little lips and turned away.
"Enough of these trifles," said Braenn grimly. "Let us march on."
"Hold on, hold on." The Witcher straightened up and looked down at the dryad. "Our plans are changing somewhat."
"Eh?" Braenn said, raising her eyebrows.
"Lady Eithné can wait. I have to take the little one home. To Verden."
The dryad squinted and reached for her quiver. "You're not going anywhere. Nor is she."
The Witcher's face turned grim. "Be careful, Braenn," he said. "I'm not that kid whose eye you speared with an arrow from the undergrowth."
"Bloede arss!" she hissed, raising her bow. "You're going to Duén Canell, and so is she! Not to Verden!"
"No. Not to Verden!" the mousy-haired girl said, throwing herself at the dryad and pressing herself against her slim thigh. "I'm going with you! And he can go to Verden by himself, to silly old Kistrin, if he wants!"
Braenn did not even look at her, did not take her eyes off Geralt. But she lowered her bow. "Ess dungh!" she said, spitting at his feet. "Very well! Then go on your way! We'll see how you fare. You'll kiss an arrow before you leave Brokilon."
She wasn't wrong. Without her, the two of them wouldn't get out of Brokilon nor reach Duén Canell. Perhaps he'd manage to persuade Eithné… "Very well, Braenn," Geralt said placatingly. "Have it your way. We shall all go to Duén Canell. To Lady Eithné."
The dryad muttered something under her breath and unnocked the arrow. "To the road, then," she said, straightening her hairband. "We have tarried too long."
"Ooow…" the little girl yelped as she took a step.
"What's the matter?"
"I've done something… To my leg."
"Wait, Braenn! Come here, scamp, I'll carry you pick-a-back." She was warm and smelt like a wet sparrow. "What's your name, princess? I've forgotten."
"My feet are sore too—" Alaster grumbled.
"Too bad. Say it again, girl. Your name."
"Ciri." She said, glancing at the boy and giving him a haughty look.
"And your estates, where do they lie, if I may ask?" Geralt said after a pause.
"I won't tell," she grunted. "I won't tell, and that's that."
"I'll get by. Don't wriggle or sniff right by my ear. What were you doing in Brokilon? Did you get lost? Did you lose your way?"
"Not a chance! I never get lost."
"Did you run away from Kistrin? From Nastrog Castle? Before or after the wedding?"
"How did you know?" She sniffed, intent.
He ignored her question. "Why did you run away to Brokilon, of all places? Weren't there any safer directions?"
"I couldn't control my stupid horse."
"You're lying, princess. Looking at your size, the most you could ride is a cat. And a gentle one at that."
"I was riding with Marck. Sir Voymir's esquire. But the horse fell in the forest and broke its leg. And we lost our way."
"You said that never happens to you."
"He got lost, not me. It was foggy. And we lost our way."
You got lost, thought Geralt. Sir Voymir's poor esquire, who had the misfortune to happen upon Braenn and her companions. A young stripling, who had probably never known a woman, helped the scamp escape, because he'd heard a lot of knightly stories about virgins being forced to marry. He helped her escape, to fall to a dryad's dyed arrow—one who probably hasn't known a man herself. But already knows how to kill.
"I asked you if you bolted from Nastrog Castle before or after the wedding?"
"I just scarpered and it's none of your business," she grunted. "Grandmamma told me I had to go there and meet him. That Kistrin. Just meet him. But that father of his, that big-bellied king…"
"Ervyll."
"… kept on: 'the wedding, the wedding'. But I don't want him. That Kistrin. Grandmamma said—"
"Is Prince Kistrin so revolting?"
"I don't want him," Ciri proudly declared, sniffing loudly. "He's fat, stupid and his breath smells. Before I went there they showed me a painting, but he wasn't fat in the painting. I don't want a husband like that. I don't want a husband at all."
"Ciri," the Witcher said hesitantly. "Kistrin is still a child, like you. In a few years he might turn into a handsome young man."
"Then they can send me another painting, in a few years," she snorted. "And him too. Because he told me that I was much prettier in the painting they showed him. And he confessed that he loves Alvina, a lady-in-waiting and he wants to be a knight. See? He doesn't want me and I don't want him. So what use is a wedding?"
Alaster snickered. "So he didn't want you. Can't imagine why."
"What do you know, you peasant, you?" Ciri said angrily. "If I had a serf as cheeky, I'd have hanged him upside down from the rafters until his eyes popped out—!"
"Ignored him." Geralt said, interrupting. "Ciri, he's a prince and you're a princess. Princes and princesses marry like that, that's how it is. That's the custom."
"You sound like all the rest. You think that just because I'm little you can lie to me."
"I'm not lying."
"Yes you are."
Geralt said nothing. Braenn, walking in front of them, turned around, probably surprised by the silence. She shrugged and set off.
"Which way are we going?" Ciri asked glumly. "I want to know! Answer, when I ask a question!" she said menacingly when he didn't respond, backing up the order with a loud sniff. "Do you know… who's sitting on you? I'll bite you in the ear!"
The Witcher had had enough. He pulled the girl off his back and put her on the ground. "Now listen, you brat," he said harshly, struggling with his belt buckle. "In a minute I'll put you across my knee, pull down your britches and tan your backside. No one will stop me doing it, because this isn't the royal court, and I'm not your flunkey or servant. You'll soon regret you didn't stay in Nastrog. You'll soon see it's better being a princess than a snot-nosed kid who got lost in the forest. Because, it's true, a princess is allowed to act obnoxiously. And no one thrashes a princess's backside with a belt."
Braenn watched dispassionately, leaning against a tree. Alaster looked on expectantly.
"Well?" the Witcher asked, wrapping his belt around his wrist. "Are we going to behave with dignity and temperance? If not, we shall set about tanning Her Majesty's hide. Well? What's it to be?"
The little girl snivelled and sniffed, then eagerly nodded.
"Are you going to be good, princess?"
"Yes," she mumbled.
"Gloaming will soon fall," the dryad said. "Let us make haste, Gwynbleidd."
The forest thinned out. They walked through a sandy young forest, across moors, and through fog-cloaked meadows with herds of red deer grazing. It was growing cooler.
"Noble lord…" Ciri began after a long, long silence.
"My name is Geralt. What's the matter?"
"I'm awffy, awffy hungry."
"We'll stop in a moment. It'll be dark soon."
"I can't go on," she snivelled. "I haven't eaten since—"
"Stop whining." He reached into a saddlebag and took out a piece of fatback, a small round of white cheese and two apples. "Have that."
"What's that yellow stuff?"
"Fatback."
"I won't eat that," she grunted.
"Give it here." Alaster said, holding out his hand.
Ciri hesitated, then she threw it at his feet so he wouldn't catch it. He did, and stuffed it in his mouth with a gloating smile.
"Eat the cheese. And an apple. Just one." Geralt said.
"Why only one."
"Don't wriggle. Have both."
"Geralt?"
"Mhm?"
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Food'll do you good."
"I didn't… Not for that. That too, but… You saved me from that centipede… Ugh… I almost died of fright."
"You almost died," he confirmed seriously. You almost died in an extremely painful and hideous way, he thought. "But you ought to thank Braenn."
"What is she?"
"A dryad."
"An eerie wife?"
Alaster snorted.
"Yes." Geralt said before they could start a quarrel.
"So she's… They kidnap children! She's kidnapped us? Hey, but you aren't small. But why does she speak so strangely?"
"That's just her way, it's not important. What's important is how she shoots. Don't forget to thank her when we stop."
"I won't forget," Ciri replied.
"Don't wriggle, future Princess of Verden, ma'am."
"I'm not going to be a princess," she muttered.
"Very well, very well. You won't be a princess. You'll become a hamster and live in a burrow."
"No I won't! You don't know anything!"
"Don't squeak in my ear. And don't forget about the strap!"
"I'm not going to be a princess. I'm going to be…"
"Yes? What?"
"It's a secret."
"Oh, yes, a secret. Great." He raised his head. "What is it, Braenn?"
The dryad had stopped. She shrugged and looked at the sky. "I cannot go on," she said softly. "Neither can you, I warrant, with her on your back, Gwynbleidd. We shall stop here. It will darken soon."
Last edited:
Chapter 3
New
"Ciri?'
"Mhm?" the little girl sniffed and rustled the branches she was lying on.
"Aren't you cold?"
"No," she sighed. "It's warm today. Yesterday… Yesterday I froze awffy, oh my, how I did."
"It is a marvel," Braenn said, loosening the straps of her long, soft boots. "A tiny little moppet, but she has covered a long stride of forest. And she got past the lookouts, through the bog and the thicket. She is robust, healthy and stout. Truly, she would come in useful. To us."
Geralt glanced quickly at the dryad, at her eyes shining in the semi-darkness. Braenn leaned back against a tree, removed her hair-band and let her hair down with a shake of her head.
"She entered Brokilon," she muttered, forestalling his comment. "She is ours, Gwynbleidd. We are marching to Duén Canell."
"Lady Eithné will decide," he responded tartly. But he knew Braenn was right. Pity, he thought, looking at the little girl wriggling on the green bed. She's such a determined rascal! The world is so big and so beautiful. And Brokilon will now be her world, until the end of her days. And there may not be many. Perhaps only until the day she falls in the bracken, amidst cries and the whistles of arrows, fighting in this senseless battle for the forest. On the side of those who will lose. Who have to lose. Sooner or later.
"Ciri?"
"Yes?"
"Where do your parents live?" He asked. Alaster, that nosy brat, rolled his eyes.
"I don't have any parents," she sniffed. "They drowned at sea when I was tiny."
Yes, he thought gravely. A princess, the child of a deceased royal couple. There was no denying it. It was her. Who else could it be? Still, that didn't mean anything. Their meeting might indeed be fate, but he would do what he'd do, which was nothing at all. Destiny wasn't enough. Something more was needed. He lay down beside the little girl and covered her with his jacket. "Sleep," he said. "Sleep, little orphan."
"Orphan? Humph!" she growled. "I'm a princess, not an orphan. And I have a grandmamma. And my grandmamma is a queen, so you'd better be careful. When I tell her you wanted to give me the strap, my grandmamma will order your head chopped off, you'll see."
"Ghastly! Ciri, have mercy!"
"Not a chance!"
"But you're a good little girl. And beheading hurts awfully. You won't say anything, will you?"
"I will."
"Ciri."
"I will, I will, I will! Afraid, are you?"
"Dreadfully. You know, Ciri, you can die from having your head cut off."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"She'll put you in your place, you'll see. No one takes liberties with my grandmamma. When she stamps her foot the greatest knights and warriors kneel before her; I've seen it myself. And if one of them is disobedient, then it's 'chop' and off with his head."
"Dreadful. Ciri?"
"Uh-huh?"
"I think they'll cut off your head."
"My head?"
"Naturally. After all, your grandmamma, the queen, arranged a marriage with Kistrin and sent you to Nastrog Castle in Verden. You were disobedient. As soon as you return… it'll be chop! and off with your head."
The little girl fell silent. She even stopped fidgeting. He heard her smacking her lips, biting her lower lip and sniffing.
"You're wrong," she said. "Grandmamma won't let anyone chop off my head, because… Because she's my grandmamma, isn't she? Oh, at most I'll get…"
"Aha," Geralt laughed. "There's no taking liberties with grandmamma, is there? The switch has come out, hasn't it?"
Ciri snorted angrily.
"Do you know what?" he said. "We'll tell your grandmamma that I've already whipped you, and you can't be punished twice for the same crime. Is it a deal?"
"You must be silly!" Ciri raised herself on her elbows, making the branches rustle. "When grandmamma hears that you thrashed me, they'll chop your head off just like that!"
"So you are worried for my head then?"
The little girl fell silent and sniffed again.
"Geralt…"
"What, Ciri?"
"Grandmamma knows I have to go home. I can't be a princess or the wife of that stupid Kistrin. I have to go home, and that's that."
You do, he thought. Regrettably, it doesn't depend on you or on your grandmamma. It depends on the mood of old Eithné. And on my persuasive abilities.
"Grandmamma knows," Ciri continued. "Because I… Geralt, promise you won't tell anybody. It's a terrible secret. Dreadful, I'm serious. Swear."
"I swear."
"Very well, I'll tell you. My mama was a witch, so you'd better watch your step. And my papa was enchanted, too. It was all told to me by one of my nannies, and when grandmamma found out about it, there was a dreadful to-do. Because I'm destined, you know?"
"A witch, huh? The apple didn't fall far from the tree, then." Alaster muttered.
"Who said you could listen you, you… eavesdropper!"
"Your chattering is so long and loud, what am I supposed to do? Not like I can sleep."
"Cover your ears, then! I didn't say it for you to hear!"
"Destined to do what?" Geralt prodded gently, though he already knew.
"I don't know," Ciri said intently. "But I'm destined. That's what my nanny said. And grandmamma said she won't let anyone… that the whole ruddy castle will collapse first. Do you understand? And nanny said that nothing, nothing at all, can help with destiny. Ha! And then nanny wept and grandmamma yelled. Do you see? I'm destined. I won't be the wife of that silly Kistrin. Geralt?"
"Go to sleep," he yawned, so that his jaw creaked. "Go to sleep, Ciri."
"And who is he anyway?" She asked, her voice rising. "What's he doing, following you around when he's just a little kid, and carrying that big sword?"
"I'm looking after him since nobody else wants to."
"Tell me a story." The girl said, flitting from one topic to the next.
"What?"
"Tell me a story," she snorted. "How am I supposed to sleep without a story? I mean, really!"
"I don't know any stories. Go to sleep."
"You're lying. You do. What, no one told you stories when you were little? What are you laughing about?"
"Nothing. I just recalled something."
"Aha! You see. Go on."
He put his hands under his head and looked up at the stars twinkling beyond the branches above their heads. "There was once… a cat," he began. "An ordinary, tabby mouser. And one day that cat went off, all by itself, on a long journey to a terrible, dark forest. He walked… And he walked… And he walked…"
"I don't like this story." Alaster said. He was apart from the rest, in a little hollow. "I want something more exciting."
"Quiet. So… he walked and he walked until he came across a fox. A red fox."
Braenn sighed and lay down beside the Witcher, on the other side, and also snuggled up a little.
"Very well," Ciri sniffed. "Say what happened next."
"The fox looked at the cat. Who are you? he asked. I'm a cat, said the cat. Ha, said the fox. But aren't you afraid, cat, to be roaming the forest alone? What will you do if the king comes a-hunting? With hounds and mounted hunters and beaters? I tell you, cat, said the fox, the chase is a dreadful hardship to creatures like you and I. You have a pelt, I have a pelt, and hunters never spare creatures like us, because hunters have sweethearts and lovers, and their little hands and necks get cold, so they make muffs and collars for those strumpets to wear."
"What are muffs?" Ciri asked.
"And the fox went on. 'I, cat, know how to outwit them; I have one thousand, two hundred and eighty-six ways to outfox those hunters, so cunning am I. And you, cat, how many ways do you have?'"
"Oh, what a fine tale," Ciri said, cuddling more tightly to the Witcher. "What did the cat say?"
"Aye," whispered Braenn from the other side. "What did the cat say?"
"This is lame."
The Witcher turned his head. The dryad's eyes were sparkling, her mouth was half-open and she was running her tongue over her lips. He could understand. Little dryads were hungry for tales. Just like little witchers. Because both of them were seldom told bedtime stories. Little dryads fell asleep listening raptly to the wind blowing in the trees. Little witchers fell asleep listening raptly to their aching arms and legs. Our eyes also shone like Braenn's when we listened to the tales of Vesemir in Kaer Morhen. But that was long ago… So long ago…
"Well," Ciri said impatiently. "What then?"
"The cat said: I, fox, don't have any ways. I only know one thing; up a tree as quick as can be. That ought to be enough, oughtn't it? The fox burst out laughing. Hah, he said. What a goose you are! Flourish your stripy tail and flee, for you'll perish if the hunters trap you. And suddenly, from nowhere, the horns began to sound! And the hunters leaped out from the bushes. And they saw the cat and the fox. And they were upon them!"
"Oh!" Ciri sniffed, and the dryad shifted suddenly.
"And they were upon them, yelling: Have them, skin them! We'll make muffs out of them, muffs! And they set the hounds on the fox and the cat. And the cat darted up a tree, like every cat does. Right to the very top. But the hounds seized the fox! And before Reynard had time to use any of his cunning ways, he'd been made into a collar. And the cat meowed from the top of the tree and hissed at the hunters, but they couldn't do anything to him, because the tree was as high as hell. They stood at the foot of the tree, swearing like troopers, but they had to go away empty-handed. And then the cat climbed down from the tree and slunk calmly home."
"What happened then?"
"Nothing. That's the end."
"I knew it was going to be terrible."
"What about the moral?" Ciri asked. "Tales always have a moral, don't they?"
"Hey?" Braenn said, hugging Geralt even harder. "What's a moral?"
"A good story has a moral and a bad one doesn't," Ciri sniffed with conviction.
"That was a good one," the dryad yawned. "So it has what it ought to have. You, moppet, should have scurried up a tree from that yghern, like that canny tomcat. Not pondered, but scurried up the tree without a thought. And that is all the wisdom in it. To survive. Not to be caught."
"Hmph, don't try to tease understanding out of me like you're some school-teacher, Geralt." Alaster said, grumbling. "You don't have the knack for it. Tell a proper damned story instead of trying to be clever."
Geralt didn't even look at him. So used to the insufferable brat he'd grown… "Weren't there any trees in the castle grounds, Ciri? In Nastrog? Instead of coming to Brokilon you could have skinned up a tree and stayed there, at the very top, until Kistrin's desire to wed had waned."
"Are you mocking me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Know what? I can't stand you."
"I didn't think I'd find myself agreeing with the spoiled little thing, but here we are—"
"That's dreadful. Ciri, you've stabbed me in the very heart."
"I know," she nodded gravely, sniffing, and then clung tightly to him.
"Sleep well, Ciri," he muttered, breathing in her pleasant, sparrow scent. "Sleep well. Goodnight, Braenn."
"Deárme, Gwynbleidd."
"What about me?" Alaster asked, though no reply was forthcoming.
Above their heads a billion Brokilon branches soughed and hundreds of billions of Brokilon leaves rustled.
"Mhm?" the little girl sniffed and rustled the branches she was lying on.
"Aren't you cold?"
"No," she sighed. "It's warm today. Yesterday… Yesterday I froze awffy, oh my, how I did."
"It is a marvel," Braenn said, loosening the straps of her long, soft boots. "A tiny little moppet, but she has covered a long stride of forest. And she got past the lookouts, through the bog and the thicket. She is robust, healthy and stout. Truly, she would come in useful. To us."
Geralt glanced quickly at the dryad, at her eyes shining in the semi-darkness. Braenn leaned back against a tree, removed her hair-band and let her hair down with a shake of her head.
"She entered Brokilon," she muttered, forestalling his comment. "She is ours, Gwynbleidd. We are marching to Duén Canell."
"Lady Eithné will decide," he responded tartly. But he knew Braenn was right. Pity, he thought, looking at the little girl wriggling on the green bed. She's such a determined rascal! The world is so big and so beautiful. And Brokilon will now be her world, until the end of her days. And there may not be many. Perhaps only until the day she falls in the bracken, amidst cries and the whistles of arrows, fighting in this senseless battle for the forest. On the side of those who will lose. Who have to lose. Sooner or later.
"Ciri?"
"Yes?"
"Where do your parents live?" He asked. Alaster, that nosy brat, rolled his eyes.
"I don't have any parents," she sniffed. "They drowned at sea when I was tiny."
Yes, he thought gravely. A princess, the child of a deceased royal couple. There was no denying it. It was her. Who else could it be? Still, that didn't mean anything. Their meeting might indeed be fate, but he would do what he'd do, which was nothing at all. Destiny wasn't enough. Something more was needed. He lay down beside the little girl and covered her with his jacket. "Sleep," he said. "Sleep, little orphan."
"Orphan? Humph!" she growled. "I'm a princess, not an orphan. And I have a grandmamma. And my grandmamma is a queen, so you'd better be careful. When I tell her you wanted to give me the strap, my grandmamma will order your head chopped off, you'll see."
"Ghastly! Ciri, have mercy!"
"Not a chance!"
"But you're a good little girl. And beheading hurts awfully. You won't say anything, will you?"
"I will."
"Ciri."
"I will, I will, I will! Afraid, are you?"
"Dreadfully. You know, Ciri, you can die from having your head cut off."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"She'll put you in your place, you'll see. No one takes liberties with my grandmamma. When she stamps her foot the greatest knights and warriors kneel before her; I've seen it myself. And if one of them is disobedient, then it's 'chop' and off with his head."
"Dreadful. Ciri?"
"Uh-huh?"
"I think they'll cut off your head."
"My head?"
"Naturally. After all, your grandmamma, the queen, arranged a marriage with Kistrin and sent you to Nastrog Castle in Verden. You were disobedient. As soon as you return… it'll be chop! and off with your head."
The little girl fell silent. She even stopped fidgeting. He heard her smacking her lips, biting her lower lip and sniffing.
"You're wrong," she said. "Grandmamma won't let anyone chop off my head, because… Because she's my grandmamma, isn't she? Oh, at most I'll get…"
"Aha," Geralt laughed. "There's no taking liberties with grandmamma, is there? The switch has come out, hasn't it?"
Ciri snorted angrily.
"Do you know what?" he said. "We'll tell your grandmamma that I've already whipped you, and you can't be punished twice for the same crime. Is it a deal?"
"You must be silly!" Ciri raised herself on her elbows, making the branches rustle. "When grandmamma hears that you thrashed me, they'll chop your head off just like that!"
"So you are worried for my head then?"
The little girl fell silent and sniffed again.
"Geralt…"
"What, Ciri?"
"Grandmamma knows I have to go home. I can't be a princess or the wife of that stupid Kistrin. I have to go home, and that's that."
You do, he thought. Regrettably, it doesn't depend on you or on your grandmamma. It depends on the mood of old Eithné. And on my persuasive abilities.
"Grandmamma knows," Ciri continued. "Because I… Geralt, promise you won't tell anybody. It's a terrible secret. Dreadful, I'm serious. Swear."
"I swear."
"Very well, I'll tell you. My mama was a witch, so you'd better watch your step. And my papa was enchanted, too. It was all told to me by one of my nannies, and when grandmamma found out about it, there was a dreadful to-do. Because I'm destined, you know?"
"A witch, huh? The apple didn't fall far from the tree, then." Alaster muttered.
"Who said you could listen you, you… eavesdropper!"
"Your chattering is so long and loud, what am I supposed to do? Not like I can sleep."
"Cover your ears, then! I didn't say it for you to hear!"
"Destined to do what?" Geralt prodded gently, though he already knew.
"I don't know," Ciri said intently. "But I'm destined. That's what my nanny said. And grandmamma said she won't let anyone… that the whole ruddy castle will collapse first. Do you understand? And nanny said that nothing, nothing at all, can help with destiny. Ha! And then nanny wept and grandmamma yelled. Do you see? I'm destined. I won't be the wife of that silly Kistrin. Geralt?"
"Go to sleep," he yawned, so that his jaw creaked. "Go to sleep, Ciri."
"And who is he anyway?" She asked, her voice rising. "What's he doing, following you around when he's just a little kid, and carrying that big sword?"
"I'm looking after him since nobody else wants to."
"Tell me a story." The girl said, flitting from one topic to the next.
"What?"
"Tell me a story," she snorted. "How am I supposed to sleep without a story? I mean, really!"
"I don't know any stories. Go to sleep."
"You're lying. You do. What, no one told you stories when you were little? What are you laughing about?"
"Nothing. I just recalled something."
"Aha! You see. Go on."
He put his hands under his head and looked up at the stars twinkling beyond the branches above their heads. "There was once… a cat," he began. "An ordinary, tabby mouser. And one day that cat went off, all by itself, on a long journey to a terrible, dark forest. He walked… And he walked… And he walked…"
"I don't like this story." Alaster said. He was apart from the rest, in a little hollow. "I want something more exciting."
"Quiet. So… he walked and he walked until he came across a fox. A red fox."
Braenn sighed and lay down beside the Witcher, on the other side, and also snuggled up a little.
"Very well," Ciri sniffed. "Say what happened next."
"The fox looked at the cat. Who are you? he asked. I'm a cat, said the cat. Ha, said the fox. But aren't you afraid, cat, to be roaming the forest alone? What will you do if the king comes a-hunting? With hounds and mounted hunters and beaters? I tell you, cat, said the fox, the chase is a dreadful hardship to creatures like you and I. You have a pelt, I have a pelt, and hunters never spare creatures like us, because hunters have sweethearts and lovers, and their little hands and necks get cold, so they make muffs and collars for those strumpets to wear."
"What are muffs?" Ciri asked.
"And the fox went on. 'I, cat, know how to outwit them; I have one thousand, two hundred and eighty-six ways to outfox those hunters, so cunning am I. And you, cat, how many ways do you have?'"
"Oh, what a fine tale," Ciri said, cuddling more tightly to the Witcher. "What did the cat say?"
"Aye," whispered Braenn from the other side. "What did the cat say?"
"This is lame."
The Witcher turned his head. The dryad's eyes were sparkling, her mouth was half-open and she was running her tongue over her lips. He could understand. Little dryads were hungry for tales. Just like little witchers. Because both of them were seldom told bedtime stories. Little dryads fell asleep listening raptly to the wind blowing in the trees. Little witchers fell asleep listening raptly to their aching arms and legs. Our eyes also shone like Braenn's when we listened to the tales of Vesemir in Kaer Morhen. But that was long ago… So long ago…
"Well," Ciri said impatiently. "What then?"
"The cat said: I, fox, don't have any ways. I only know one thing; up a tree as quick as can be. That ought to be enough, oughtn't it? The fox burst out laughing. Hah, he said. What a goose you are! Flourish your stripy tail and flee, for you'll perish if the hunters trap you. And suddenly, from nowhere, the horns began to sound! And the hunters leaped out from the bushes. And they saw the cat and the fox. And they were upon them!"
"Oh!" Ciri sniffed, and the dryad shifted suddenly.
"And they were upon them, yelling: Have them, skin them! We'll make muffs out of them, muffs! And they set the hounds on the fox and the cat. And the cat darted up a tree, like every cat does. Right to the very top. But the hounds seized the fox! And before Reynard had time to use any of his cunning ways, he'd been made into a collar. And the cat meowed from the top of the tree and hissed at the hunters, but they couldn't do anything to him, because the tree was as high as hell. They stood at the foot of the tree, swearing like troopers, but they had to go away empty-handed. And then the cat climbed down from the tree and slunk calmly home."
"What happened then?"
"Nothing. That's the end."
"I knew it was going to be terrible."
"What about the moral?" Ciri asked. "Tales always have a moral, don't they?"
"Hey?" Braenn said, hugging Geralt even harder. "What's a moral?"
"A good story has a moral and a bad one doesn't," Ciri sniffed with conviction.
"That was a good one," the dryad yawned. "So it has what it ought to have. You, moppet, should have scurried up a tree from that yghern, like that canny tomcat. Not pondered, but scurried up the tree without a thought. And that is all the wisdom in it. To survive. Not to be caught."
"Hmph, don't try to tease understanding out of me like you're some school-teacher, Geralt." Alaster said, grumbling. "You don't have the knack for it. Tell a proper damned story instead of trying to be clever."
Geralt didn't even look at him. So used to the insufferable brat he'd grown… "Weren't there any trees in the castle grounds, Ciri? In Nastrog? Instead of coming to Brokilon you could have skinned up a tree and stayed there, at the very top, until Kistrin's desire to wed had waned."
"Are you mocking me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Know what? I can't stand you."
"I didn't think I'd find myself agreeing with the spoiled little thing, but here we are—"
"That's dreadful. Ciri, you've stabbed me in the very heart."
"I know," she nodded gravely, sniffing, and then clung tightly to him.
"Sleep well, Ciri," he muttered, breathing in her pleasant, sparrow scent. "Sleep well. Goodnight, Braenn."
"Deárme, Gwynbleidd."
"What about me?" Alaster asked, though no reply was forthcoming.
Above their heads a billion Brokilon branches soughed and hundreds of billions of Brokilon leaves rustled.