‘Yes . . . No! And anyway . . . Anyway, I can’t hear anything. They’re too far away.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ laughed the bard. ‘If you want.’
‘And how are you supposed to know?’
‘Ha, ha. I, my dear Ciri, am a poet. Poets know everything about things like this. I’ll tell you something else; poets know more about this sort of thing than the people involved do.’
‘Of course you do!’
‘I give you my word. The word of a poet.’
‘Really? Well then . . . Tell me what they’re talking about? Tell me what it all means!’
‘Look through that hole again and tell me what they’re doing.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Ciri bit her lower lip, then leaned over and put her eye closer to the hole. ‘Madam Yennefer is standing by a willow . . . She’s plucking leaves and playing with her star. She isn’t saying anything and isn’t even looking at Geralt . . . And Geralt’s standing beside her. He’s looking down and he’s saying something. No, he isn’t. Oh, he’s pulling a face . . . What a strange expression . . .’
‘Childishly simple,’ said Dandelion, finding an apple in the grass, wiping it on his trousers and examining it critically. ‘He’s asking her to forgive him for his various foolish words and deeds. He’s apologising to her for his impatience, for his lack of faith and hope, for his obstinacy, doggedness. For his sulking and posing; which are unworthy of a man. He’s apologising to her for things he didn’t understand and for things he hadn’t wanted to understand—’
‘That’s the falsest lie!’ said Ciri, straightening up and tossing the fringe away from her forehead with a sudden movement. ‘You’re making it all up!’
‘He’s apologising for things he’s only now understood,’ said Dandelion, staring at the sky, and he began to speak with the rhythm of a balladeer. ‘For what he’d like to understand, but is afraid he won’t have time for . . . And for what he will never understand. He’s apologising and asking for forgiveness . . . Hmm, hmm . . . Meaning, conscience, destiny? Everything’s so bloody banal . . .’
‘That’s not true!’ Ciri stamped. ‘Geralt isn’t saying anything like that! He’s not even speaking. I saw for myself. He’s standing with her and saying nothing . . .’
‘That’s the role of poetry, Ciri. To say what others cannot utter.’
‘It’s a stupid role. And you’re making everything up!’
‘That is also the role of poetry. Hey, I hear some raised voices coming from the pond. Have a quick look, and see what’s happening there.’
‘Geralt,’ said Ciri, putting her eye once more to the hole in the wall, ‘is standing with his head bowed. And Yennefer’s yelling at him. She’s screaming and waving her arms. Oh dear . . . What can it mean?’
‘It’s childishly simple.’ Dandelion stared at the clouds scudding across the sky. ‘Now she’s saying sorry to him.’
CHAPTER THREE
Thus do I take you, to have and to hold, for the most wondrous and terrible of times, for the best and the worst of times, by day and by night, in sickness and in health. For I love you with all my heart and swear to love you eternally, until death do us part.
Traditional marriage vows
We know little about love. Love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear.
Dandelion, Half a Century of Poetry
Geralt had reason to suspect – and had long suspected – that sorcerers’ banquets differed from the feasts of ordinary mortals. He never suspected, however, that the differences could be so great or so fundamental.
The offer of accompanying Yennefer to the banquet preceding the sorcerers’ conclave surprised but did not dumbfound him, since it was not the first such proposal. Previously, when they lived together and things were good between them, Yennefer had wanted to attend assemblies and conclaves with him at her side. At that time, he steadfastly refused. He was convinced he would be treated by the sorcerers at best as a freak and a spectacle, and at worst as an intruder and a pariah. Yennefer scoffed at his fears, but had never insisted. Since in other situations she was capable of insisting until the house shook and windows shattered, that had confirmed Geralt’s belief that his decision had been right.
This time he agreed. Without a second thought. The offer came after a long, frank and emotional conversation. After a conversation which had brought them closer again, consigned the old conflicts to the shadows and to oblivion, and melted the ice of resentment, pride and stubbornness. After their conversation on the causeway in Hirundum, Geralt would have agreed to any – absolutely any – proposition of Yennefer’s. He would not even have declined had she suggested they walked into hell to drink a cup of boiling tar with some fiery demons.