BooksBarbecue
Back Sword of Destiny Save as PDF
Contents (57)
  2. Sword of Destiny
  3. THE BOUNDS OF REASON
  4. I
  5. II
  6. III
  7. IV
  8. V
  9. VI
  10. VII
  11. VIII
  12. A SHARD OF ICE
  13. I
  14. II
  15. III
  16. IV
  17. V
  18. VI
  19. VII
  20. VIII
  21. IX
  22. ETERNAL FLAME
  23. I
  24. II
  25. III
  26. IV
  27. A LITTLE SACRIFICE
  28. I
  29. II
  30. III
  31. IV
  32. V
  33. VI
  34. VII
  35. VIII
  36. IX
  37. X
  38. THE SWORD OF DESTINY
  39. I
  40. II
  41. III
  42. IV
  43. V
  44. VI
  45. VII
  46. VIII
  47. SOMETHING MORE
  48. I
  49. II
  50. III
  51. IV
  52. V
  53. VI
  54. VII
  55. VIII
  56. IX

‘I want to know,’ Geralt said slowly. ‘I want to know why with swords. I want to know why you have a black kestrel and where it came from. I have the right to know. I have the right to know the truth, Istredd.’

‘The truth?’ the sorcerer repeated bitterly. ‘Yes, perhaps you have. Perhaps you have. Our rights are equal. The kestrel, you ask? It came at dawn, wet from the rain. It brought a letter. A very short one, I know it by heart. “Farewell, Val. Forgive me. There are gifts which one may not accept, and there is nothing in me I could repay you with. And that is the truth, Val. Truth is a shard of ice”. Well, Geralt? Are you satisfied? Have you availed yourself of your right?’

The Witcher slowly nodded.

‘Good,’ Istredd said. ‘Now I shall avail myself of mine. Because I don’t acknowledge that letter. Without her, I cannot… I prefer to… Have at you, dammit!’

He crouched over and drew his sword with a swift, lithe movement, demonstrating his expertise. The kestrel cried.

The Witcher stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides.

‘What are you waiting for?’ the sorcerer barked.

Geralt slowly raised his head, looked at him for a moment and then turned on his heel.

‘No, Istredd,’ he said quietly. ‘Farewell.’

‘What do you bloody mean?’

Geralt stopped.

‘Istredd,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Don’t drag other people into your suicide. If you must, hang yourself in the stable from your reins.’

‘Geralt!’ the sorcerer screamed, and his voice suddenly cracked, jarring the ear with a false, wrong note. ‘I’m not giving up! She won’t run away from me! I’ll follow her to Vengerberg, I’ll follow her to the end of the world. I’ll find her! I’ll never give her up! Know that!’

‘Farewell, Istredd.’

He walked off into the alley, without turning back at all. He walked, paying no attention to the people quickly getting out of his way, or to the hurried slamming of doors and shutters. He did not notice anybody or anything.

He was thinking about the letter waiting for him in the inn.

He speeded up. He knew that a black kestrel, wet from the rain, holding a letter in its curved beak, was waiting for him on the bed-head. He wanted to read the letter as soon as possible.

Even though he knew what was in it.

ETERNAL FLAME

I

‘You pig! You plague-stricken warbler! You trickster!’

Geralt, his interest piqued, led his mare around the corner of the alleyway. Before he located the source of the screams, a deep, stickily glassy clink joined them. A large jar of cherry preserve, thought the Witcher. A jar of cherry preserve makes that noise when you throw it at somebody from a great height or with great force. He remembered it well. When he lived with Yennefer she would occasionally throw jars of preserve at him in anger. Jars she had received from clients. Yennefer had no idea how to make preserve–her magic was fallible in that respect.