Time of Contempt(87)

Close by lay an old tree, blown down in a gale. The poet sat down on the trunk, rested the lute on his knee, licked his lips and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

The day was drawing to a close. A haze rose from the Ribbon, forming a grey-white shroud enveloping the meadows. It was cooler now. The honking of cranes sounded and died away, leaving only the croaking of frogs.

Dandelion plucked the strings. Once, then twice, then a third time. He twisted the pegs, tuned the lute and began to play. And a moment later, to sing.

     Yviss, m’evelienn vente cáelm en tell

Elaine Ettariel Aep cór me lode deith ess’viell

Yn blath que me darienn

Aen minne vain tegen a me

Yn toin av muirednn que dis eveigh e aep llea . . .





The sun vanished behind the trees. It immediately became dark in the shade of Brokilon’s mighty trees.

     Ueassan Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell,

Elaine Ettariel,

Aep cor . . .





He didn’t hear – but he felt – somebody’s presence.

‘N’te mirę daetre. Sh’aente vort.’

‘Don’t shoot . . .’ he whispered, obediently not looking around. ‘N’aen aespar a me . . . I come in peace . . .’

‘N’ess a tearth. Sh’aente.’

He obeyed, although his fingers had turned cold and numb on the strings, and he had difficulty making any sound whatsoever emerge from his throat. But there was no hostility in the dryad’s voice and he was a professional, dammit.

     Ueassan Lamm feainne renn, ess’ell,

Elaine Ettariel,

Aep cor aen tedd teviel e gwen

Yn blath que me darienn

Ess yn e evellien a me

Que shaent te cáelm a’vean minne me striscea . . .





This time he took the liberty of glancing over his shoulder. Whatever was crouching by the tree trunk, very near, resembled a bush entwined in ivy. But it wasn’t a bush. Bushes didn’t have such large, shining eyes.

Pegasus snorted softly, and Dandelion knew that behind him in the darkness someone was stroking his horse’s muzzle.

‘Sh’aente vort,’ requested the dryad squatting behind him once again. Her voice was like the pattering of rain on leaves.

‘I . . .’ he began. ‘I am . . . The comrade of the witcher Geralt . . . I know that Geralt— That Gwynbleidd is among you in Brokilon. I have come . . .’

‘N’te dice’en. Sh’aente, va.’

‘Sh’aent,’ gently asked a second dryad from behind him, virtually in unison with a third. And maybe a fourth. He couldn’t be certain.

‘Yea, sh’aente, taedh,’ said the thing that a moment earlier the poet had taken to be a birch sapling standing a few paces in front of him, in a silvery, girlish voice. ‘Ess’laine . . . Taedh . . . Sing . . . Sing some more about Ettariel . . . Yes?’

He did as she asked.

     To adore you, is all my life

Fair Ettariel

Let me keep, then, the treasure of memories

And the magical flower;

A pledge and sign of your love.

Silvered by drops of dew as if by tears . . .





This time he heard steps approaching.

‘Dandelion.’

‘Geralt!’

‘Yes, it’s me. You can stop that racket now.’

‘How did you find me? How did you know I was in Brokilon?’

‘Triss Merigold . . . Bloody hell . . .’ said Dandelion. He tripped again and would have fallen, had a passing dryad not seized him in a dextrous and astonishingly powerful grip for one so slight.

‘Gar’ean, táedh,’ she warned in silver tones. ‘Va cáelm.’

‘Thank you. It’s awfully dark here . . . Geralt? Where are you?’

‘Here. Don’t lag behind.’

Dandelion quickened his pace, stumbled once more and almost fell on the Witcher, who had stopped in the dark in front of him. The dryads passed by them silently.

‘It’s hellishly dark . . . Is it much further?’

‘No. We’ll soon be at the camp. Who, apart from Triss, knows I’m hiding here? Did you let it slip to anyone?’

‘I had to tell King Venzlav. I needed safe conduct through Brugge. You wouldn’t believe the times we live in . . . I also had to have permission for the expedition to Brokilon. But anyway, Venzlav knows you and likes you . . . He appointed me an envoy. Just imagine. I’m sure he’ll keep it secret, I asked him to. Don’t get annoyed now, Geralt . . .’

The Witcher came closer. Dandelion couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the white hair and bristles of several days’ beard growth, which was visible even in the dark.

‘I’m not annoyed,’ said the Witcher, placing his hand on Dandelion’s shoulder. It seemed as though his voice, which up until then had been cold, was somewhat changed. ‘I’m glad you’re here, you whoreson.’