Roger Chi | Reading

Chapter 2

Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? Edgar Allan Poe

Chapter 3

‘Upon my honour, witcher, I am a knight-errant,’chortled the Reynart Boris-de Fresnes. ‘Have you forgotten? Knights always talk like morons. It is as much a part of their character as this shield here. Thanks to the speech and the coat of arms we know who belongs to the brotherhood.’
Prince Rajmund, to put it mildly, was dishonest, a villain, and forgive me, a motherfucker, that would cause the devil himself an ulcer in six months. And Toussaint suffered under his rule for seven years. But Duchess Anareitta is adored by the people.’
‘Grapevines,’ confirmed Reynart Boris-de Fresnes. ‘The famous valley of Sansretour. The world’s most excellent wine is made from the grapes that grow here.’
‘The official title of Lady Anna Henrietta,’ said the chamberlain, who not only looked like a confectioner, but even smelled like icing, ‘is“Your Enlightenedness” and unofficially “Lady Duchess” for outside of court. But you should always address her as “Your Belovedness”.
‘Pour, Reynart,’The company at the next table performed a more festive divination –throwing a chain of peeled apple skins and guessing there future partners from the letter it resembled. Even though practically every throw produced the letter “S”, they continued to throw.
A nightmare is troubling their homes. A spirit, a demon in female form, a succubus, so shameless that we dare not describe her, tortures faithful and virtuous spouses. She enters the bedrooms at night and makes all kinds of knavery and abominable perversion that our modesty forbids us to speak of.
She was wearing so many diamonds, that if she was to walk past a window she would scratch the glass.
A little further on, between to matrons, sat Emiel Regis. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket which made him look like a vampire.
‘What is real masculinity,’ she mockingly shook her head, ‘but the right mixture of crazy and style?’
Regis gesticulated with a silver fork and argued the best remedy for vampires are silver, whose lightest touch is absolutely deadly to a vampire. What about garlic? Asked one of the ladies. Garlic is also effective; Regis went on, but socially awkward, because of the awful smell.
‘Toussaint is considered the land of fairy tales, silly, clueless and thanks to it sustained economic focus in a state of constant drinking and recklessness. As such, it is not taken seriously by anyone, but is permitted to enjoy certain privileges. In the end we are the most prominent producer of wine and as we know, life without wine would be very unstable. In Toussaint there are no spies, agents or secret service. Toussaint doesn’t need an army, just wandering knights wearing blindfolds because Toussaint is never attacked.
‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘I believe in the sincerity of your purpose.’‘You do not lie?’‘I vow by the heron.’
‘We came out of Brokilon on a joy expedition. Without the slightest chance of success, we followed a mirage, a dream, a desire, an unattainable ideal. We set off in pursuit like crazy fools. But I, Geralt, I did not say a word of complaint. I did not call you crazy or ridicule you. Because you were filled with hope and love. They guided you on this insane mission. And me too. But I have caught up with a mirage, and I was lucky enough that the dream came true. My mission has ended. I have found what is hard to find. And I cannot give it up. Is that supposed to be madness? I’d be a fool if I left.’

Chapter 4

"Because it is like the youthful, charm filled expression of our lovely Angoulême says: ‘Eventually, there comes a time when you either have to shit or get off the toilet.’
However, I accept much less the view that it could not also be reversed. Because this view is a convenient fatalism. It is a paean to apathy and baseness on a feather bed and the charming warmth of a woman’s womb. In short, to live in a dream. Life, Miss Vigo may be a dream, may end in a dream …But it's a dream that you must actively dream. Therefore, Miss Vigo, the road awaits us."

Chapter 5

Now you know. Now you understand. They did this, the Aen Elle, the King of the Alders, the Fox and Sparrowhawk. This world was not originally their world. They made it theirs when they conquered it. When they opened the Ard Gaeth. With our help, because we had been used and abused and now they are trying to use and abuse you.

Chapter 6

If you swallowed a cockroach in you soup, dolt, you would have more intellect in your gut than in your head.
“What is a spear? The weapon nobles stick a poor man at each end.”
The whole episode –from Pike screaming to grandfather Holofernes blowing his nose –took about as long as it would take to say –“Halflings are extremely fast and agile and can flawless hurl missiles of all kinds.”

Chapter 7

However, experience had taught her that excessive confidence can be dangerous and a lack of vigilance can be fatal.

Chapter 8

The blacksmith, a muscular fellow, was busy rearranging tools on his bench that would be used to rescue the wounded from warped armour and helmets.
‘There,’Rusty pointed in the same direction as before, ‘will soon begin hundreds of thousands of people trying to hurt and kill each other. In very sophisticated ways. In this and two other hospitals we have twelve doctors. There is no way in the world we’ll be able to help all those in need. Not even a fraction of those in need. And to tell you the truth, no one even expects that from us. But we will treat them. Because it is, sorry for the cliché, the reason for our existence. To those who need us.’
The old chronicler used the sponge and erased the next sentence, with whose wording he was not satisfied. He closed his eyes, reminding himself of that day. The moment when the two armies collided. Where both armies, as fierce as mastiffs, jumped at each other’s throats, tightening in a deadly embrace. Jarre looked for the words with which to describe it. In vain.
Count Kobus de Ruyter had fought many battles in the last forty years. He had fought them since his sixteenth year of life. De Ruyter’s had been soldiers for eight generations. The roar of battle, the rattle and crash of steel that was unbearable for everyone, Kobus de Ruyter perceived as a musical symphony.
‘Mmmenno …Coehoorn …’he stammered, spitting blood. ‘Mmarshal …Coehoorn …’‘What is he spluttering, Zoltan?’one of the dwarves wonder aloud. ‘Who cares, fuck this dog and his chatter! See the embroidery on his cloak, Munro?’‘A silver scorpion! Haaa! Guys, nail the motherfucker! For Caleb Stratton!’‘For Caleb!’The strings rang. Coehoorn received one arrow in his chest, one in the groin and one below the collar bone. The Nilfgaardian Field Marshal fell back into the slush, knotweed and pondweed and disappeared under the weight of his armour. Who the devil is Caleb Stratton, he thought, I’ve never even heard of Caleb …Turbid water, dense with blood and mud from the Cholta River closed over his head and into his lungs.
He turned and saw the moonlight on the faces of the two girls, bright and silvery with tears. 'I wonder,' he said licking his dry and callous lips, 'who has won the battle. Does anyone know?' Marti turned to face him, but remained silent. The cicadas sang among the willows and alders by the pond, the frogs croaked, the wounded wailed, prayed and sighed. And died. Iola and Shani laughed amongst their tears.
Marti Sodergren died two weeks after the battle. She had an affair with an officer of the condottieri Free Company. She tried this adventure as something temporary. Unlike the officer. When Marti, who liked changes, became involved with a cavalry officer, the condottiere, mad with jealousy, stabbed her. He hung for it, but they were unable to save the healer. Rusty and Iola died a year after the battle, in Maribor, the biggest explosion of the epidemic hemorrhagic fever, also known as the Scarlet Death, or - from the name of the ship which it was imported from - The Catriona Plague. All the doctors and most of the priests hurried to Maribor, along with Rusty and Iola. To heal because they were doctors. The fact that there was no cure for the Scarlet Death did not matter to them. Both were infected. He died in her arms, the strong, confident grip of her large, ugly, peasant hands. She died four days later. Alone. Shani died seventy-two years after the battle as a famous and respected retired professor of medicine at the University of Oxenfurt. Future generations of surgeons repeated her famous quote - "Sew red with red, yellow with yellow and white with white. And everything will be all right". Hardly anyone noticed, after delivering this quote she always secretly wiped away tears. Hardly anyone.
Frogs croaked, cicadas buzzed, Iola and Shani giggled and cried. 'I wonder,' repeated Milo Vanderbeck, a halfling, a field surgeon, known as Rusty. 'I wonder who won the battle?' 'Rusty,' said Marti Sodergren. 'This is really the last thing I'd be interested in your place.'

Chapter 9

Maria Barring opened her mouth, coughed horribly and spit blood down her chin. 'I love you too, Dad,' she said clearly. And she died.
‘Tell …’ Angouleme’s lips moved slower and with more difficulty. ‘Say, you’re still a princess … In Cintra … I’ll be rewarded, right? You’ll make me … a Countess? Tell me. Do not lie … Can you? Tell me.’
She fell silent, looking at the remains of the melted column in which she could recognise the outline of a person. ‘Who was that, Geralt?’‘A friend. I’ll miss him very much.’‘Was he human?’‘He was an incarnation of humanity. How are you, Yen?’
I’ve seen the death of friends who followed me here from the end of the world. To save your daughter. They did not even know her, except for Cahir; none of them had seen her. They came to save her because there was something in them that was worthy and noble. And for what? To find death. I don’t think that is fair. And if anyone is interested, I’m not satisfied. Because a story in which good people die and the rogues live is bullshit.
Ciri, in three steps stood before him, Geralt silently gasped. He heard Yennefer sigh. Bloody hell, he thought, anyone can see it! Everyone in the Black Ones army will see it! The same attitude, the same sparkling eyes, the same gesture with her mouth, the way she crosses her arms over her chest. Fortunately she inherited her mother’s ashen mane. But even so, those who aren’t blind can see whose blood she is.
‘Too much. Goodbye, witcheress.’‘Goodbye, witcher.’‘Don’t cry.’‘That is easy for you to say.’
He touched her hair, as if to count the snowy strings. He touched her cheek, his fingertips running along the old scar. Then he hugged her, cuddling her close to his chest, stroking the back of her head. And she, shaking and crying uncontrollably, let him. ‘A strange thing, fate,’ she heard him whisper faintly. ‘Goodbye, my daughter.’

Chapter 10

‘Even the common man,’he said with obvious sarcasm, ‘even in his moments of joy, should know that politics is also a war, only by other means. It should also be understood that such negotiations are merely a form of trade. It is conducted in an identical manner. Success in negotiation is based on concessions obtained. Something is given, something is lost. In other words, in order to buy something, something must be sold.’
‘My dear Baron,’began the envoy, rocking his cup again, ‘your difficulties in understanding the imperial order arose because you surmised that the victory in the war is inextricably bound up with an absurd waste of material resources and human lives and is achieved by someone waving a flag and shouting, “Everything I see is mine! I won!”A similar opinion is, unfortunately, fairly widespread. But for me and the people who have put their trust in me, we don’t think so. Victory is supposed to look like this –the defeated have to buy goods from the winners, and do it gladly, because the goods of the winners and better and cheaper. The winners currency is stronger than the currency of the defeated and the vanquished and they begin to have more confidence in their own. Do you understand me, Baron Fitz-Oesterlen? Are you slowly beginning to distinguish the winners from the losers?’
‘But in order to strengthen and legitimise the victory,’ Leuvaarden said dragging out his syllables, ‘a peace must be signed. A soon as possible and at any cost. Not a ceasefire or truce, but a real lasting peace. A strong contract that will build and exclude implementation of economic blockades, retaliatory tariffs and trade protectionism.’
‘You understand well,’ he bit his lip. ‘Emperors rule the world, but two things they don’t have control over. Their heart and their time. Both belong to the empire.’
'I've always said,' sighed the priestess, 'that love knows no boundaries. And what about Iola the Second?' 'Alive,' Eurneid hurried to explain. 'She is in Maribor.' 'Why did she not come back?' The adept bowed her head. 'She will not return to the temple, Mother,' she said quietly. 'She is at a hospital with Mister Milo Vanderbeck , the surgeon, a halfling. She said that she wants to care for the sick. This is what she wants to dedicate her life to. Forgive her, Mother.' 'Forgive?' cried the priestess. 'I'm proud of her!'
Some of them, once past the grandstand, showed the kings a bent elbow, other made one of their favourite gestures – a clenched fist with an upright middle finger. Scholars describe the gesture as digitus infamis. Common people called it something worse.
Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, you will be transported from this courtroom to the Citadel, where you will be held until the proper time comes. As a traitor to your homeland of Nilfgaard, you are unworthy to tread upon its ground; you will be laid on a wooden skid and dragged by horses to Millennium Square. As a traitor to his homeland of Nilfgaard, you are unworthy to breathe the air; you will be hanged by the neck on the gallows between heaven and earth. So you will stay there until you die. Then your body will be cremated and the ashes scattered to the winds on the four sides of the world. Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, traitor. I the Chairman of the Supreme Court of the Empire, sentence you and this is the last time I will speak your name. From now on, let it be forgotten.’

Chapter 11

In Geso in Ebbing, stories began to circulate. About the Wild Hunt. About three ghostly riders. Rumours were invented and spun in the evenings, in smoky pubs that smelled of fried onions and butter and in meeting rooms and huts. Rumours were invented, told and exaggerated. A great war of heroism and chivalry, of honour and friendship as well as meaningless treachery. With sincere and faithful love, which always wins out in the end, about crime and punishment of criminals that are always struck by justice. The truth, as always rises up, like oil on water. They invented lies and enjoyed these fables. They revelled in pure fantasy. Because out in the real world, everything worked out the opposite.
Yes it is my fault, he thought. Mine. Dandelion will ask. And I’ll have to answer. Milva. Cahir. Regis. Angouleme. The sword of destiny cuts both ways.
‘Thank you, Lady Philippa,’ Ciri said after a few moments, squeezing the head of the sphinxes in her hands. ‘I also feel honoured with the proposal to take the surname de Tansarville. However, it seems to me that my new last name is the only thing that I can choose for myself, I thank the two mistresses. But I want to be called Cirilla of Vengerberg, daughter of Yennefer.’

Chapter 12

'Come on, Geralt,' said Dandelion to the witcher, he had started to notice the war orphans, those not completely drunk, eyes begin to glitter with the use of fisstech.
'For the archer Milva!' Zoltan cleared his throat and raised his cup in a salute. 'For the Nilfgaardian. For Regis the herbalist, who entertained strangers in his hut, with moonshine made from mandrake. And for this Angouleme, with who I am not familiar. Let the earth rest light on them. Let them have there, in the afterlife, everything that they had scarce in this life. And let their names live on long in songs and stories. Let's drink.'