They continued. The silk of Lydia van Bredevoort’s dress whispered softly, and the whisper contained a menacing secret.
‘And that?’ Geralt stopped. ‘What is this dreadful scene?’
‘The martyrdom of the sorcerer Radmir, flayed alive during the Falka rebellion. In the background burns the town of Mirthe, which Falka had ordered to be consumed by flame.’
‘For which act Falka herself was soon consumed by flame. At the stake.’
‘That is a widely known fact; Temerian and Redanian children still play at burning Falka on Saovine’s Eve. Let’s go back, so that you may see the other side of the gallery . . . Ah, I see you have a question.’
‘I’m wondering about the chronology. I know, naturally, how elixirs of youth work, but the simultaneous appearance of living people and long dead ones in these paintings . . .’
‘You mean: you are astonished that you met Hen Gedymdeith and Tissaia de Vries at the banquet, but Bekker, Agnes of Glanville, Stammelford or Nina Fioravanti are not with us?’
‘No. I know you’re not immortal—’
‘What is death?’ interrupted Vilgefortz. ‘To you?’
‘The end.’
‘The end of what?’
‘Existence. It seems to me we’ve moved from art history to philosophy.’
‘Nature doesn’t know the concept of philosophy, Geralt of Rivia. The pathetic – ridiculous – attempts which people undertake to try to understand nature are typically termed philosophy. The results of such attempts are also considered philosophy. It’s as though a cabbage tried to investigate the causes and effects of its existence, called the result of these reflections “an eternal and mysterious conflict between head and root”, and considered rain an unfathomable causative power. We, sorcerers, don’t waste time puzzling out what nature is. We know what it is; for we are nature ourselves. Do you understand?’
‘I’m trying to, but please talk more slowly. Don’t forget you’re talking to a cabbage.’
‘Have you ever wondered what happened when Bekker forced the water to gush from the rock? It’s generally put very simply: Bekker tamed the Power. He forced the element to be obedient. He subdued nature; controlled it . . . What is your relationship to women, Geralt?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Lydia van Bredevoort turned with a whisper of silk and froze in anticipation. Geralt saw she was holding a wrapped-up painting under one arm. He had no idea where the picture had come from, since Lydia had been empty-handed a moment before. The amulet around his neck vibrated faintly.
Vilgefortz smiled.
‘I enquired,’ he repeated, ‘as to your views concerning the relationship between men and women.’
‘Regarding what respect of that relationship?’
‘Can obedience, in your opinion, be forced upon women? I’m talking about real women, of course, not just the female of the species. Can a real woman be controlled? Overcome? Made to surrender to your will? And if so, how? Answer me.’
The ragdoll didn’t take her eyes off them. Yennefer looked away.
‘Did you answer?’
‘Yes, I did.’
With her left hand, the enchantress squeezed his elbow, and with her right squeezed his fingers, which were touching her breasts.
‘How?’
‘You surely know.’
‘You’ve understood,’ said Vilgefortz a moment later. ‘And you’ve probably always understood. And thus you will also understand that if the concept of will and submission, of commands and obedience, and of male ruler and servant woman will perish and disappear, then unity will be achieved. A community merging into a single entity will be achieved. All will be as one. And if something like that were to occur, death would lose its meaning. Jan Bekker, who was water gushing from the rock, is present there in the banqueting hall. To say that Bekker died is like saying that water has died. Look at that painting.’
Geralt looked.
‘It’s unusually beautiful,’ he said after a moment. At once he felt a slight vibration of his witcher’s medallion.
‘Lydia,’ smiled Vilgefortz, ‘thanks for your acknowledgement. And I congratulate you on your taste. The landscape depicts the meeting between Cregennan of Lod and Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, the legendary lovers, torn apart and destroyed by the time of contempt. He was a sorcerer and she was an elf, one of the elite of Aen Saevherne, or the Knowing Ones. What might have been the beginning of reconciliation was transformed into tragedy.’
‘I know that story. I always treated it as a fairytale. What really happened?’
‘That,’ said the sorcerer, becoming serious, ‘nobody knows. I mean almost nobody. Lydia, hang up your picture over here. Geralt, have a look at another of Lydia’s impressive works. It’s a portrait of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal taken from an ancient miniature.’