'Geralt,' said Stregobor, 'when we were listening to Eltibald, many of us had doubts.

But we

decided to accept the lesser evil. Now I ask you to make a similar choice.'

'Evil is evil, Stregobor,' said the witcher seriously as he got up. 'Lesser, greater, middling, it's

all the same. Proportions are

negotiated, boundaries blurred. I'm not a pious hermit, I haven't done only good in my life.

But if I'm to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all. Time for

me to go. We'll see each other tomorrow.'

'You don't believe in it, you say. Well you're right, in a way. Only Evil and Greater Evil exist

and beyond them, in the shadows, lurks True Evil. True Evil, Geralt, is something you can

barely imagine, even if you believe nothing can still surprise you. And sometimes True Evil

seizes you by the throat and demands that you choose between it and another, slightly lesser,

Evil.'

'What's your goal here, Renfri?

'Nothing. I've had a bit to drink and I'm philosophising, I'm looking for general truths. And

I've found one: lesser evils exist, but we can't choose them. Only True Evil can force us to

such a choice. Whether we like it or not.'

'People,' Geralt turned his head, like to invent monsters and monstrosities. Then they seem

less monstrous themselves. When they get blind-drunk, cheat, steal, beat their wives, starve an

old woman, when they kill a trapped fox with an axe or riddle the last existing unicorn with

arrows, they like to think that the Bane entering cottages at daybreak is more monstrous than

they are. They feel better then. They find it easier to live.'

'There's no such things as devils!' yelled the poet, shaking the cat from sleep once and for all.

'No such thing! To the devil with it, devils don't exist!'

'True,' Geralt smiled. 'But Dandilion, I could never resist the temptation of having a look at
something that doesn't exist.'

'Only one thing,' she said coldly, 'can be said about exceptions. They exist. Nothing more. But

Yennefer . . . Well, unfortunately, she isn't an exception. At least not as regards the handicap

we're talking about. In other respects it's hard to find a greater exception than her.'

The porter was too huge to have the reflexes which would let him dodge or shield himself

from a quick blow given by an ordinary man. He didn't even have time to blink before the

witcher's blow landed. The heavy purse struck him in the temple with a metallic crash. He

collapsed against the door, grabbing the frame with both hands. Geralt tore him away from it

with a kick in the knee, shoved him with his shoulder and fetched him another

blow with the purse. The doorman's eyes grew hazy and diverged in a comical squint, and his

legs folded under him like two penknives. The witcher, seeing the strapping fellow moving,

although almost unconscious, walloped him with force for the third time, right on the crown

of his head.

'Money,' he muttered, 'opens all doors.'

'Oh, no,' she interrupted him. 'If it's all that complicated then wait. An aftertaste in my mouth,

dishevelled hair, sticky eyes and other morning inconveniences strongly affect my perceptive

faculties. Go downstairs to the bath-chamber in the cellar. I'll be there in a minute and then

you'll tell me everything.'

'Geralt.'

'Yes,' he stopped on the threshold.

'Make use of the opportunity to have a bath yourself. I can not only guess the age and breed of

your horse, but also its colour, by the smell.

Geralt hesitated. He thought he smelled the scent of lilac and gooseberries.

'I think so,' he said reluctantly. 'I do have to. I'm sorry, Chireadan—'

'Don't apologise. I know what you feel.'

'I doubt it. Because I don't know myself.'

The elf smiled. The smile had little to do with joy. 'That's just it, Geralt. Precisely it.'

'Why did Geralt go there?' groaned Dandilion. 'What the hell for? Why did he insist on saving

that witch? Why, dammit? Chireadan, do you understand?'

The elf smiled sadly. 'Yes, I do, Dandilion,' he said. 'I do.'

Yennefer!' he shouted. 'Calm down! Will you listen!? You won't be able—'

He didn't finish. Thin red bolts of lightning spurted from the sorceress's hands, reaching him

in many places and wrapping him up thoroughly. His clothes hissed and started to smoulder.

'I won't be able to?' she said through her teeth, standing over

him. 'You'll soon see what I'm capable of. It will suffice for you to lie there for a while and

not get in my way.'

'You're not saying anything,' she hissed. 'So what is it you desire, witcher? What is your most

hidden dream? Is it that you don't know or you can't decide? Look for it within yourself, look

deeply and carefully because, I swear by the Force, you won't get another chance like this!'

But he suddenly knew the truth. He knew it. He knew what she used to be. What she

remembered, what she couldn't forget, what she lived with. Who she really was before she

had become a sorceress.

Her cold, penetrating, angry and wise eyes were those of a hunchback.

He was horrified. No, not of the truth. He was horrified that she would read his thoughts, find

out what he had guessed. That she would never forgive him for it. He deadened that thought
within himself, killed it, threw it from his memory forever, without trace, feeling, as he did so,

enormous relief. Feeling that—

The ceiling cracked open. The djinn, entangled in the net of the now fading rays, tumbled

right on top of them, roaring, and in that roar were triumph and murder lust. Yennefer leapt to

meet him. Light beamed from her hands. Very feeble light.

The djinn opened his mouth and stretched his paws towards her.

The witcher suddenly understood what it was he wanted.

And he made his wish.'The wish, Geralt! Hurry up! What do you desire? Immortality? Riches? Fame?
Power?

Might? Privileges? Hurry, we haven't any time!' He was silent. 'Humanity,' she said suddenly,

smiling nastily. 'I've guessed, haven't I? That's what you want, that's what you dream of! Of

release, of the freedom to be who you want, not who you have to be. The djinn will fulfil that

wish, Geralt. Just say it.'

He stayed silent.

She stood over him in the nickering radiance of the wizard's sphere, in the glow of magic,

amidst the flashes of rays restraining the djinn, streaming hair and eyes blazing violet, erect,

slender, dark, terrible . . .

And beautiful.

All of a sudden she leant over and looked him in the eyes. He caught the scent of lilac and

gooseberries.

She leant over him, touched him. He felt her hair, smelling of lilac and gooseberries, brush his

face and he suddenly knew that he'd never forget that scent, that soft touch, knew that he'd

never be able to compare it to any other scent or touch. Yennefer kissed him and he

understood that he'd never desire any lips other than hers, so soft and moist, sweet with

lipstick. He knew that, from that moment, only she would exist, her neck, shoulders and

breasts freed from her black dress, her delicate, cool skin, which couldn't be compared to any

other he had ever touched. He gazed into her violet eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world,
eyes which he feared would become . . .

Everything. He knew.

'What are they doing?'

Dandilion was curious. 'Tell me,

dammit!'

The elf smiled. Very, very sadly. 'I don't like grand words,' he

said. 'And it's impossible to give it a name without using grand

words.'

'You're very cocksure,' snarled Sheldon Skaggs. 'You've evidently forgotten, sir knight, that

before the battle of Sodden Hill, the Nilfgaard had advanced across your lands like an iron

roller, strewing the land between Marnadal and Transriver with the corpses of many a gallant

fellow like yourself. And it wasn't loudmouthed smart-arses like you who stopped the

Nilfgaardians, but the united strengths of Temeria, Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen. Concord

and unity, that's what stopped them!'

Nilfgaard is ruled by Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, a tyrant and autocrat who enforces

obedience with whip, noose and axe!' thundered Baron Vilibert. 'What are you proposing, sir

dwarf? How are we supposed to close ranks? With similar tyranny? And which king, which

kingdom, in your opinion, should subordinate the others? In whose hands would you like to

see the sceptre and knout?'

'Difficult times are approaching,' she said quietly.

'Difficult and dangerous. A time of change is coming. It would be a shame to grow old with

the uncomfortable conviction that one had done nothing to ensure that these changes are for

the better. Don't you agree?'

common folk and, I conjecture, will never be uprooted, for they are as eternal as stupidity

itself. There, where mountains tower today, one day there will be seas; there where today seas

surge, will one day be deserts. But stupidity will remain stupidity.

Nicodemus de Boot, Meditations on life, Happiness and Prosperity

A child like that should not hear about the massacre. A child like that should not be terrified

by the prospect that they too may one day hear words describing it like those which were

screamed by the fanatics who marched on Kaer Morhen long ago. Mutant. Monster. Freak.

Damned by the gods, a creature contrary to nature. No, I do not blame the witchers for not

telling you about it, little Ciri. And I shan't tell you either. I have even more reason to be

silent. Because I am a wizard, and without the aid of wizards those fanatics would never have

conquered the castle. And that hideous lampoon, that widely distributed Monstrum which

stirred the fanatics up and drove them to such wickedness was also, apparently, some wizard's

anonymous work. But I, little Ciri, do not recognise collective responsibility, I do not feel the

need to expiate the events which took place half a century before my birth. And the skeletons

which are meant to serve as an eternal reminder will ultimately rot away completely,

disintegrate into dust and be forgotten, will disappear with the wind which constantly whips

the mountainside . . .

Ciri sighed with admiration. Triss smiled, pleased by the effect she'd had. Beautiful, long,

loose hair was a rarity, an indication of a woman's position, her status, the sign of a free

woman, a woman

who belonged to herself. The sign of an unusual woman - because 'normal' maidens wore their

hair in plaits, 'normal' married women hid theirs beneath a caul or a coif. Women of high

birth, including queens, curled their hair and styled it. Warriors cut it short. Only druids and

magicians — and whores — wore their hair naturally so as to emphasise their independence
and freedom.

'That's why you're learning about ghouls now, Ciri. When you know about something it stops

being a nightmare. When you know how to fight something, it stops being so threatening. So

how do you fight a ghoul, Ciri?'

'Auuu! It was supposed to be slow! What did I do wrong, Coen?'

'Nothing. I'm just taller and stronger than you are.'

'That's not fair!'

'There's no such thing as a fair fight. You have to make use of every advantage and every

opportunity that you get. By retreating you gave me the opportunity to put more force into the

strike. Instead of retreating you should have executed a half-pirouette to the left and tried to

cut at me from below, with quarte dextra, under the chin, in the cheek or throat.'

'I've known many who believed themselves to be the best.'

'Oh! What were they? What were their names? What could they do?'

'Hold on, hold on, girl. I haven't got an answer to those questions. Is it all that important?'

'Of course it's important! I'd like to know who these fencers are. And where they are.'

'Where they are? I know that.'

'Ah! So where?'

'In cemeteries.'

'You're embittered,' she stated, tugging nervously at a strand of hair. 'Or pretending to be. You

forget that I know you, so don't play the unfeeling mutant, devoid of a heart, of scruples and

of his own free will, in front of me. And the reasons for your bitterness, I can guess and

understand. Ciri's prophecy, correct?'

'No, not correct,' he answered icily. 'I see that you don't know me at all. I'm afraid of death,
just like everyone else, but I grew used to the idea of it a very long time ago - I'm not under

any illusions. I'm not complaining about fate, Triss — this is plain, cold calculation. Statistics.

No witcher has yet died of old age, lying in bed dictating his will. Not a single one. Ciri didn't

surprise or frighten me. I know I'm going to die in some cave which stinks of carcases, torn

apart by a griffin, lamia or manticore. But I don't want to die in a war, because they're not my

wars.'

'I'm surprised at you,' she replied sharply. 'I'm surprised that you're saying this, surprised by

your lack of motivation, as you learnedly chose to describe your supercilious distance and

indifference. You were at Sodden, Angren and Transriver. You know what happened to

Cintra, know what befell Queen Calanthe and many thousands of people there. You know the

hell Ciri went through, know why she cries out at night. And I know, too, because I was also

there. I'm afraid of pain and death too, even more so now than I was then - I have good

reason. As for motivation, it seems to me that back then I had just as little as you. Why should I, a
magician, care about the fates of Sodden, Brugge, Cintra or other kingdoms? The

problems of having more or less competent rulers? The interests of merchants and barons? I

was a magician. I, too, could have said it wasn't my war, that I could mix elixirs for the

Nilfgaardians on the ruins of the world. But I stood on that Hill next to Vilgefortz, next to

Artaud Terranova, next to Fercart,

next to Enid Findabair and Filippa Eilhart, next to your Yennefer. Next to those who no

longer exist - Coral, Yoel, Vanielle . . . There was a moment when out of sheer terror I forgot

all my spells except for one — and thanks to that spell I could have teleported myself from

that horrific place back home, to my tiny little tower in Maribor. There was a moment, when I

threw up from fear, when Yennefer and Coral held me up by the shoulders and hair—'

'Stop. Please, stop.'

'No, Geralt. I won't. After all, you want to know what happened there, on the Hill. So listen -

there was a din and flames, there were flaming arrows and exploding balls of fire, there were

screams and crashes, and I suddenly found myself on the ground on a pile of charred,
smoking rags, and I realised that the pile of rags was Yoel and that thing next to her, that

awful thing, that trunk with no arms and no legs which was screaming so horrifically was

Coral. And I thought the blood in which I was lying was Coral's blood. But it was my own.

And then I saw what they had done to me, and I started to howl, howl like a beaten dog, like a

battered child— Leave me alone! Don't worry, I'm not going to cry. I'm not a little girl from a

tiny tower in Maribor any more. Damn it, I'm Triss Merigold, the Fourteenth One Killed at

Sodden. There are fourteen graves at the foot of the obelisk on the Hill, but only thirteen

bodies. You're amazed such a mistake could have been made? Most of the corpses were in

hard-to-recognise pieces - no one identified them. The living were hard to account for, too. Of

those who had known me well, Yennefer was the only one to survive, and Yennefer was

blind. Others knew me fleetingly and always recognised me by my beautiful hair. And I,

damn it, didn't have it any more!'

Geralt held her closer. She no longer tried to push him away.

'They used the highest magics on us,' she continued in a muted voice, 'spells, elixirs, amulets

and artefacts. Nothing was left wanting for the wounded heroes of the Hill. We were cured,

patched up, our former appearances returned to us, our hair and sight restored. You can hardly

see the marks. But I will never wear a plunging neckline again, Geralt. Never.'

'I don't know,' said the dwarf with some effort. 'I'm not omniscient. I'm doing what I think

right. The Squirrels have taken up their weapons and gone into the woods. "Humans to the

sea," they're shouting, not realising that their catchy slogan was fed them by Nilfgaardian

emissaries. Not understanding that the slogan is not aimed at them but plainly at humans, that

it's meant to ignite human hatred, not fire young elves to battle. I understood -that's why I

consider the Scoia'tael's actions criminally stupid. What to do? Maybe in a few years time I'll

be called a traitor who

sold out and they'll be heroes . . . Our history, the history of our world, has seen events turn

out like that.'

witcher has to defend people. From the leshy, the vampire, the werewolf. And not only from

them. He has to defend people from every evil. And in Transriver I saw what evil is.

A witcher has to defend and save. To defend men so that they aren't hung on trees by their

hands, aren't impaled and left to die. To defend fair girls from being spread-eagled between

stakes rammed into the ground. Defend children so they aren't slaughtered and thrown into a

well. Even a cat burned alive in a torched barn deserves to be defended. That's why I'm going

to become a witcher, that's why I've got a sword, to defend people like those in Sodden and

Transriver - because they don't have swords, don't know the steps, half-turns, dodges and

pirouettes. No one has taught them how to fight, they are defenceless and helpless in face of

the werewolf and the Nilfgaardian marauder. They're teaching me to fight so that I can defend

the helpless. And that's what I'm going to do. Never will I be neutral. Never will I be

indifferent.

A popular saying at King Vizimir's

court held that if Dijkstra states it is noon yet darkness reigns all around, it is time to start

worrying about the fate of the sun. A popular saying at King Vizimir's

court held that if Dijkstra states it is noon yet darkness reigns all around, it is time to start

worrying about the fate of the sun.

'You mean to say,' Terranova screwed up his face, 'we will dance to the tune they play?'

'Yes, Artaud.' Vilgefortz looked at him and his eyes flashed. 'You will dance to the tune they

play. Or you will take leave of the dance-floor. Because the orchestra's podium is too high for

you to climb up there and tell the musicians to play some other tune. Realise that at las!. II

you think another solution is possible, you

are making a mistake. You mistake the stars reflected in the surface of the lake at night for the

heavens.
Stone, metal, crystal, thought Tissaia de Vries. 'Everything that Yennefer wears is active and

cannot be detected using psychic visions. You won't find her that way, my dear. If Yennefer

does not wish anyone to know where she is, no one will find out

'You want to know too much, mutant. You call me a stooge? And do you know what you are?

A heap of dung on the road which has to be removed because someone prefers not to soil their

boots. No, I am not going to disclose who that person is to you, although I could. But I will

tell you something else so you have something to think about on your way to hell. I already

know where to find the little bastard you were looking after. And I know where to find that

witch of yours, Yennefer. My patrons don't care about her but I bear the whore a personal

grudge. As soon as I've finished with you, I'm going after her. I'll see to it that she regrets her

tricks with fire. Oh, yes, she is going to regret them. For a very long time.'

'You shouldn't have said that.' The witcher smiled nastily, feeling the euphoria of battle

aroused by the elixir, reacting with adrenalin. 'Before you said that, you still had a chance to

live. Now you don't.'

I knew you wouldn't understand.'

'Indeed, I don't. I never will. But I do know what it's about. Your great causes, your wars,

your struggle to save the world . . . Your end which justifies the means . . . Prick up your ears,

Philippa. Can you hear those voices, that yowling? Those are cats fighting for a great cause.

For indivisible mastery over a heap of rubbish. It's no joking matter - blood is being spilled

and clumps of fur are flying. It's war. But I care incredibly little about either of these wars, the

cats' or yours.'

Most of us wizards lose the ability to procreate due to somatic changes and dysfunction of the

pituitary gland. Some wizards -usually women - attune to magic while still maintaining

efficiency of the gonads. They can conceive and give birth - and have the audacity to consider
this happiness and a blessing. But I repeat: no one is born a wizard. And no one should be

bom one! Conscious of the gravity of what I write, I answer the question posed at the

Congress in Cidaris. I answer most emphatically: each one of us must decide what she wants

to be - a wizard or a mother.

I demand all apprentices be sterilised. Without exception.

Tissaia de Vries, The Poisoned Source

'I came to you with a serious matter, as a wizard to a scholar,' she said icily and with dignity,

in a tone of voice which exactly copied that of Yennefer. 'So behave!'

Ciri snorted,

spluttered and spat because soap had got into her mouth. She tossed her head wandering

whether a spell existed which could make washing possible without water, soap and wasting

time.

'Unfortunately,' she said quietly, 'unfortunately, you're right, my ugly one. If the ability to

make use of experience and draw conclusions decided, we would have forgotten what war is a

long

time ago. But those whose goal is war have never been held back, nor will be, by experience

or analogy.'

Ciri shuddered and hunched her shoulders. No, she did not envy Yennefer that one thing - did

not desire to have it or even look at it. Those eyes, violet, deep as a fathomless lake, strangely

bright, dispassionate and malefic. Terrifying.

The magician turned towards the stout high priestess. The star on her neck flamed with

reflections of the sun beaming through the window into the refectory.
'Calm down.' Nenneke looked at her coldly and, all of a sudden, somehow oddly without

respect. 'I said they were natural and absolutely safe. Forgive me, dear, but in this respect I am

a greater authority than you. I know it is exceedingly difficult for you to

accept someone else's authority but in this case I am forced to inflict it on you. And let there

be no more talk about it.'

'As you wish.' Yennefer pursed her lips. 'Well, come on, girl. We don't have much time. It

would be a sin to waste it.'

'I didn't want to say that.' Yennefer tossed her black locks, which gleamed and writhed like

snakes. 'Thank you for doing so for me, And now let us change the subject, please, because

the one we were discussing is exceptionally silly - disgraceful in front of our young pupil.

And as for being understanding, as you ask . . . I will be. But kind-hearted with that, there

might be a problem

because, after all, it is widely thought I don't possess any such organ. But we'll manage

somehow. Isn't that right, Surprise?'

'I didn't want to listen to you, you say? That's interesting. I usually devote my attention to

every sentence uttered in my presence and note it in my memory. The one condition being

that there be at least a little sense in the sentence.'

'You're always mocking me.' Ciri grated her teeth. 'And I just wanted to tell you . . . Well,

about these abilities. You see in Kaer Morhen, in the mountains ... I couldn't form a single

witcher Sign. Not one!'

'Magic' - Yennefer, her eyes fixed on the sky above the hills, rested her hands on the pommel

of her saddle - 'is, in some people's opinion, the embodiment of Chaos. It is a key capable of

opening the forbidden door. The door behind which lurk nightmares, fear and unimaginable

horrors, behind which enemies hide and wait, destructive powers, the forces of pure Evil
capable of annihilating not only the one who opens the door but with them the entire world. And
since there is no lack of those who try to open the door, someone, at some point, is going

to make a mistake and then the destruction of the world will be forejudged and inevitable.

Magic is, therefore, the revenge and the weapon of Chaos. The fact that, following the

Conjunction of the Spheres, people have learned to use magic, is the curse and undoing of the

world. The undoing of mankind. And that's how it is, Ciri. Those who believe that magic is

Chaos are not mistaken.'

'Magic,' Yennefer continued after a while, 'is, in some people's opinion, art. Great, elitist art,

capable of creating beautiful and extraordinary things. Magic is a talent granted to only a

chosen few. Others, deprived of talent, can only look at the results of the artists' works with

admiration and envy, can admire the finished work while feeling that without these creations

and without this talent the world would be a poorer place. The fact that, following

the Conjunction of the Spheres, some chosen few discovered talent and magic within

themselves, the fact that they found Art within themselves, is the blessing of beauty. And

that's how it is. Those who believe that magic is art are also right.'

There are also those according to whom magic is a science. In order to master it, talent and

innate ability alone are not enough. Years of keen study and arduous work are essential;

endurance and self-discipline are necessary. Magic acquired like this is knowledge, learning,

the limits of which are constantly stretched by enlightened and vigorous minds, by

experience, experiments and practice. Magic acquired in such a way is progress. It is the

plough, the loom, the watermill, the smelting furnace, the winch and the pulley. It is progress,

evolution, change. It is constant movement. Upwards. Towards improvement. Towards the

stars. The fact that following the Conjunction of the Spheres we discovered magic will, one

day, allow us to reach the stars. Dismount, Ciri.'

progress. It all depends on who uses magic, how they use it, and to what purpose. And magic

is everywhere. All around us. Easily accessible. It is enough to stretch out one's hand. See?

I'm stretching out my hand.'

'The earth which we tread. The fire which does not go out within it. The water from which all

life is born and without which life is not possible. The air we breathe. It is enough to stretch

out one's hand to master them, to subjugate them. Magic is everywhere. It is in air, in water,

in earth and in fire. And it is behind the door which the Conjunction of the Spheres has closed

on us. From there, from behind the closed door, magic sometimes extends its hand to us. For

us. You know that, don't you? You have already felt the touch of that magic, the touch of the hand
from behind that door. That touch filled you with fear. Such a touch fills everyone with

fear. Because there is Chaos and Order, Good and Evil in all of us. But it is possible and

necessary to control it. This has to be learnt. And you will learn it, Ciri. That is why I brought

you here, to this stone which, from time immemorial, has stood at the crossing of veins of

power pulsating with force. Touch it.'

'Cats like sleeping and resting on intersections. There are many stories about magical animals

but really, apart from the dragon,

the cat is the only creature which can absorb the force. No one knows why a cat absorbs it and

what it does with it . . . What's the matter?'

'Just no tears, Ciri. There's no sight more nauseating than a magician crying. Nothing arouses

greater pity. Remember that.

'But I want to be really pretty!'

'You are really pretty. A really pretty ugly one. My pretty little ugly one . . .'
Across the sky, towards Pontar Valley, flew flocks of crows, croaking loudly. Nenneke did

not look at them.

'Take care,' she repeated. 'Bad times are approaching. It might turn out to be true, what

Ithlinne aep Aevenien knew, what she predicted. The Time of the Sword and Axe is

approaching. The

Time of Contempt and the Wolf's Blizzard. Take care of her, Yennefer. Don't let anyone harm

her.'

'I'll be back, Mother,' said Ciri, leaping into her saddle. Til be back for sure! Soon!'

She did not know how very wrong she was.