The Witcher

THE WITCHER III

Foltest was slim and had a pretty - too pretty - face. He was under forty, the witcher thought.

The king was sitting on a dwarf-armchair carved from black wood, his legs stretched out toward the hearth, where two dogs were warming themselves. Next to him on a chest sat an older, powerfully-built man with a beard. Behind the king stood another man, richly dressed and with a proud look on his face. A magnate.

'A witcher from Rivia,' said the king after the moment's silence which fell after Velerad's introduction.

'Yes, your Majesty.' Geralt lowered his head.

'What made your hair so grey? Magic? I can see that you are not old. That was a joke. Say nothing. You've had a fair amount of experience, I dare presume?'

'Yes, your Majesty.'

'I would love to hear about it.'

Geralt bowed even lower. 'Your Majesty, you know our code of practice forbids us to speak of our work.'

'A convenient code, witcher, very convenient. But tell me, have you had anything to do with spriggans?'

'Yes.'

'Vampires, leshys?'

'Those too.'

Foltest hesitated. 'Strigas?'

Geralt raised his head, looking the king in the eyes. 'Yes.'

Foltest turned his eyes away. 'Velerad!'

'Yes, Gracious Majesty?'

'Have you given him the details?'

'Yes, your Gracious Majesty. He says the spell cast on the princess can be reversed.'

'I have known that for a long time. How, witcher? Oh, of course, I forgot. Your code of practice. All right. I will make one small comment. Several witchers have been here already.

Velerad, you have told him? Good. So I know that your speciality is to kill, rather than to reverse spells. This isn't an option. If one hair falls from my daughter's head, your head will be on the block. That is all. Ostrit, Lord Segelen, stay and give him all the information he requires. Witchers always ask a lot of questions. Feed him and let him stay in the palace. He is not to drift from tavern to tavern.'

The king rose, whistled to his dogs and made his way to the door, scattering the straw covering the chamber floor. At the door he paused.

'If you succeed, witcher, the reward is yours. Maybe I will add something if you do well. Of course, the nonsense spread by common folk about marrying the princess carries not a word of truth. I'm sure you don't believe I would give my daughter's hand to a stranger?'

'No, your Majesty. I don't.'

'Good. That shows you have some wisdom.'

Foltest left, closing the door behind him. Velerad and the magnate, who had been standing all the while, immediately sat at the table. The castellan finished the king's half-full cup, peered into the jug and cursed. Ostrit, who took Foltest's chair, scowled at the witcher while he stroked the carved armrests. Segelin, the bearded man, nodded at Geralt.

'Do sit, witcher, do sit. Supper will soon be served. What would you like to know? Castellan Velerad has probably already told you

everything. I know him, he has sooner told you too much than too little.'

'Only a few questions.'

'Ask.'

'The castellan said that, after the striga's appearance, the king called up many Knowing Ones.'

'That's right. But don't say striga, say princess. It makes it easier to avoid making a mistake in the king's presence - and any consequent unpleasantness.'

'Was there anyone well-known among the Knowing Ones? Anyone famous?'

'There were such, then and later. I don't remember the names. Do you, Lord Ostrit?'

'I don't recall,' said the magnate. 'But I know some of them enjoyed fame and recognition.

There was much talk of it.'

'Were they in agreement that the spell can be lifted?'

'They were far from any agreement,' smiled Segelin, 'on any subject. But such an opinion was expressed. It was supposed to be simple, not even requiring magical abilities. As I understand it, it would suffice for someone to spend the night - from sunset to the third crowing of the c**k — by the sarcophagus.'

'Simple indeed,' snorted Velerad.

'I would like to hear a description of the . . . the princess.'

Velerad leapt up from his chair. 'The princess looks like a striga!' he yelled. 'Like the most strigish striga I have heard of! Her Royal Highness, the cursed royal bastard, is four cubits high, shaped like a barrel of beer, has a maw which stretches from ear to ear and is full of dagger-like teeth, has red eyes and a red mop of hair! Her paws, with claws like a wild cat's, hang down to the ground! I'm surprised we've yet to send her likeness to friendly courts! The princess, plague choke her, is already fourteen. Time to think of giving her hand to a prince in marriage!'

'Hold on, Velerad,' frowned Ostrit, glancing at the door. Segelin smiled faintly.

'The description, although vivid, is reasonably accurate, and that's what you wanted, isn't it, witcher? Velerad didn't mention

that the princess moves with incredible speed and is far stronger for her height and build than one would expect. And she is fourteen years old, if that is of any importance.'

'It is,' said the witcher. 'Do the attacks on people only occur during the full moon?'

'Yes,' replied Segelin, 'if she attacks beyond the old palace. Within the palace walls people always die, irrespective of the moon's phase. But she only ventures out during the full moon, and not always then.'

'Has there been even one attack during the day?'

'No.'

'Does she always devour her victims?'

Velerad spat vehemently on the straw.

'Come on, Geralt, it'll be supper soon. Pish! Devours, takes a bite, leaves aside, it varies —

according to her mood, no doubt. She only bit the head from one, gutted a couple, and a few more she picked clean to the bone, sucked them dry, you could say. Damned mother's—!'

'Careful, Velerad,' snarled Ostrit. 'Say what you want about the striga but do not insult Adda in front of me, as you would not dare in the king's presence!'

'Has anyone she's attacked survived?' The witcher asked, apparently paying no special attention to the magnate's outburst.

Segelin and Ostrit looked at each other.

'Yes,' said the bearded man. 'At the very beginning, seven years ago, she threw herself at two soldiers standing guard over the crypt. One escaped—'

And then,' interrupted Velerad, 'there was another, the miller she attacked near the town. You remember . . . ?'