RUSELM'S BESTIARY
CHAPTER SEVEN ─ IRION'S IVORY TOWER
DISCLAIMER: Much of this chapter is from Sapkowski himself, from The Last Wish, which I have edited and added my own touches to. Many Witcher fans haven't read the novels so if you like the writing in this chapter, I urge you to go give them a read! The best part about this is that you can't always tell which descriptions are mine and which are Sapkowski's.

GERALT COULD EXPECT nothing less when cats and children noticed him first. A striped tomcat sleeping on a sun-warmed stack of wood shuddered, raised his angular head, flattened back his ears, hissed and bolted off into the nettles behind one of the houses. Three-year old Dragomir, fisherman Trigla's son, who was sitting on the hut's threshold doing his best to make dirtier an already dirty shirt, started to shout warnings as he fixed his baleful eyes on the passing rider. It was always like this when he arrived in a new town, he was unsurprised that Blaviken was no different.

The mousy grey donkey was laden with the heaviness of the kikimora he'd slain on the dyke not four miles from Blaviken. It trotted behind Roach, pulling at the lead wrapped around the witcher's pommel as it tried to keep up with the mare's fast pace. Geralt himself was in no hurry, but Roach was feeling rather energetic since she wasn't the one forced to carry the body of the monster from the swamp.

Outside of the alderman's house, where Geralt meant to take the kikimora, were several gathered people and their carts. A small crowd had begun following behind the witcher at some point during his path through Blaviken, and they formed a semicircle around Roach and the long-eared donkey as he hopped off, readjusted the swords on his back, and grabbed hold of Roach's reins to tie them on a post outside of the home. The rather adventurous villagers tried to poke at the large saddlecloth that was wrapped around the dead monster on the donkey's back but one bay from the ass had them retracting their hands just as quickly.

Caldemeyn had just finished dealing with a small, podgy and red with rage villager that stood holding a struggling goose by the neck in front of his house, sending the boy off with a scowl.

"What—By all the gods! Is that you, Geralt?" Caldemeyn, with eyes wide, couldn't help the little smile that wormed its way onto his face. "Do my eyes deceive me?"

"Nay," Geralt slightly bowed his head. "Greetings, Caldemeyn."

"Greetings, Geralt!" The alderman squeezed the witcher's hand as he approached, slapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "You haven't been here for a good two years, witcher. You can never stay in one place for long, can you? Where are you coming from?" The alderman didn't even wait for an answer as he continued his monologue. "Ah, dog's arse, what's the difference where?"

Geralt found himself dragged inside as Caldemeyn shouted over his shoulder at the villagers gathered outside of his home.

"Hey, somebody bring us some beer! Sit down, Geralt, sit down. It's mayhem here because we've the market tomorrow. Everyone's getting all excited and anxious. How are things with you, tell me!"

"Later." The witcher politely shook his head. "Come outside first."

The crowd standing outside had grown at least twofold but the empty space around his donkey hadn't grown any smaller. Geralt threw the horse blanket aside, knowing very well the type of reaction he'd get from those gathered. The crowd gasped and shrunk backwards, talking behind their hands, their fear and curiosity teeming in the air.

Caldemeyn's mouth fell open, surprise lining his wrinkled features. "By all the gods, Geralt! What is that dastardly thing?"

"A kikimora. Is there any reward for it?"

Caldemeyn shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking at the spidery shape of the monster with its dry black skin, that ugly glassy eye with its vertical pupil, the needle-like fangs in the bloody jaws... it was enough to make any grown man shiver and shake. "Where—From where—?"

"On the dyke, not some four miles from town. It was hiding in the swamps. Caldemeyn, people must have disappeared there. Children, probably." Geralt crossed his arms. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Well, yes, true enough. But nobody—Who could have guessed—Hey, folks, go home, get back to work!" Caldemeyn waved his arms to get the people to shove off, turning back around to head inside of his house. "This isn't a show! Cover it back up, Geralt. Flies are gathering."

Back inside, the alderman grabbed a large jug of beer without a word and drank it to the last drop in one loud draught. He sighed deeply and sniffled, satisfied after the drink. "There's no reward," he announced gloomily. "No one suspected that there was something like that lurking in the salt marshes. It's true that several people have disappeared in those parts, but... Hardly anyone loitered on that dyke. There's just been no reason to. And why were you there? Why weren't you taking the main road?"

"It's hard for me to make a living on main roads, Caldemeyn." Geralt took a seat near one of the windows, keeping one eye on Roach and the donkey. "Monsters hide off the path."

"I forgot." The alderman suppressed a hefty belch, puffing out his cheeks so he looked like a squirrel. "And this used to be such a peaceful area! Even imps only rarely pissed in the women's milk. And here, right next to us, some sort of felispectre. It's only fitting that I thank you because, as for paying you, I can't." Caldemeyn's words dropped like heavy stones. "I haven't the funds. Blaviken's struggling enough as it is without being able to pay others."

Wordlessly, the alderman offered beer to the tired and quiet witcher. He took it with a small dip of his head.

So much for being paid.

"That's a shame." Geralt sighed. "I could do with a small sum to get through the winter." The witcher took a sip from his jug, wiped away the cool froth from his mouth. He observed the alderman's home with a roving amber eye, unsurprised to see everything just the same as it used to be. "I was thinking of making my way to Yspaden, but I don't know if I'd get there before the snows block the way. I might get stuck in one of the shitty little towns on the Lutonski road."

"Do you plan to stay long in Blaviken?" Caldemeyn's curiosity was polite.

"No. I've no time to waste." Geralt set the beer down on a table beside him and resigned his hands to resting on the tops of his thighs. "Winter's coming."

Caldemeyn accepted the answer quickly. "Where are you going to stay, then? With me, perhaps? There's an empty room in the attic you could use. Why get fleeced by the innkeepers, those thieves! We'll have a chat and you can tell me what's happening in the big, wide world."

Geralt only considered the offer for a few moments. His options were limited to the marshy woods, a swindling innkeeper, or, now, Caldemeyn's attic. The answer was easy. "I'll stay. It'll be much more welcome than the marsh, and easier on the coin. But what will Libushe have to say about it? It was quite obvious the last time I was about that she's not very keen on me."

"Women don't have a say in my house." Caldemeyn waved him off. "Libushe will be fine. But, just between us, don't do what you did during supper last time in front of her again."

"You mean when I threw my fork at that rat?"

"No. I mean when you hit it, even in the dark."

"I thought it would be amusing." Geralt's lips curled into a self-satisfied smile.

"It was!" Caldemeyn couldn't suppress the shit-eating grin he only released when Geralt was around. They'd had good times together, years of something akin to friendship. But the witcher wasn't one to have friends, his job wouldn't allow for it, though Caldemeyn had seemed to be one of the exceptions. "But don't do it in front of Libushe, she'll have a fit. And listen, this... what's it called...? This kiki—"

"Kikimora."

"Do you need it for anything?" Caldemeyn's question was serious.

What would Geralt need with a kikimora?

"What would I want it for? You can have your people throw it in the cesspool if there's no reward for it." Geralt shrugged casually and stood from his seat, ready to head outside and relieve the donkey of his load.

The alderman considered the idea briefly before another struck him. His dark eyes lit up at the idea, and his words came quickly as though he couldn't talk fast enough. "Listen, Geralt, maybe our local wizard will spare you something for that carcass. The fishermen bring him the oddest of fish—octopedes, clabaters or herrongs—many have made some good money on them. Perhaps you can convince him to pay for your monster too."

The last time the witcher had been to Blaviken, there was no wizard. He found it strange that they'd have gotten one in the short time of his absence. "You've got yourselves a wizard?" Geralt questioned lightly. "Is he here for good or only passing?"

"For good. He is known as Master Irion." As if sensing Geralt's curiosity, Caldemeyn continued on. "He's been living in Blaviken for a year now. A powerful magus, Geralt, you'll see that from his very appearance. Been a solitary sort of fellow, never leaving his tower much, but he has pulled through in times of Blaviken's need."

"I doubt whether a powerful magus, as you put it, will pay for a kikimora," Geralt grimaced. "As far as I know, it's not needed for any elixirs. Your Irion will only insult me, no doubt. We witchers and wizards don't have love for each other."

"I've never heard of Master Irion insulting anyone." Caldemeyn shrugged and mirrored Geralt's earlier movements, standing up now. "I can't swear that he'll pay you but there's no harm in trying. There might be more kikimores like that on the marshes and what then? Let the wizard look at the monster and cast some sort of spell on the marshlands or something, just in case. It's not like I know how magic works."

The witcher thought for a moment.

"Very well, Caldemeyn. Where's this Irion of yours staying?"

As it turned out to be, a tower. A tower! Geralt wanted to laugh at the irony of the wizard's choice in home, but he kept his amusement to himself. Caldemeyn had taken the lead, presenting the old tower which had stood the test of time even before Geralt's last visit. The tower looked different now, though. Stronger, brighter. The tower, built from smoothly hewn blocks of smooth granite and crowned by tooth-like battlements, was far more impressive than it previously had been, dominating the broken tiles of homesteads and dipping-roofed thatched cottages of the town which lay in wait behind the pair.

Geralt figured this Irion had renovated with the use of magic, as most wizards did.

"What's he like," Geralt questioned. "This Irion?"

"Decent. He helps people. But he's a recluse, doesn't say much. As I mentioned before, he rarely leaves the tower anymore."

On the grand door, which was adorned with a rosace inlaid with pale wood, hung an unnecessarily large knocker in the shape of a flat, bulging-eyed fish-head holding a brass ring in its toothed jaws. Geralt had seen plenty of intricate knockers before but none were so lifelike and interesting to stare upon such as this fish. Why a fish, he wondered, when it could be anything else? The idea of it intrigued him but his attention was turned to the alderman that approached it without a second of hesitation.

Caldemeyn, obviously well-versed with the workings of its mechanics, approached, cleared his throat and recited thus: "Alderman Caldemeyn greets you with a case for Master Irion. With him, greets you Witcher Geralt, with respect to the very same case. We humbly request entrance to your tower."

For a long moment nothing happened; then, finally, the fish-head moved its toothed mandibles and belched a cloud of steam. "Master Irion is not receiving. Leave, my good people."

Unworried, Caldemeyn turned and looked at Geralt with a telling glance. This was the expected reaction from the wizard. The witcher shrugged.

"Master Irion is not receiving," the knocker repeated metallically once it noticed that they had not moved from the door. "Go, my good—"

"I'm not a good person," Geralt swore loudly, his patience wearing thin. "I'm a witcher. That thing on the donkey behind me is a kikimora, and I killed it not far from town. It is the duty of every resident wizard to look after the safety of the neighborhood! Master Irion does not have to honor me with conversation, does not have to receive me, if that is his will. But let him examine the kikimora and draw his own conclusions about the matter."

"Geralt," the alderman murmured quietly. "You're going to leave later but I'm going to have to deal with—"

"Let's go, Caldemeyn." Geralt interrupted and turned to the donkey they'd led to the tower. He didn't have the time or need for fooling around outside of the wizard's tower. He started to unstrap the kikimora's corpse when the fish opened its maw again.

"One moment," the knocker's tone was entirely different now. "Geralt, is that really you?"

The witcher swore under his breath, rolled his eyes. "I'm quickly losing my patience. Yes, it's really me. So what?"

"Come up to the door," said the knocker, puffing out another small cloud of steam. "Alone. And I'll let you in."

"What about the kikimora?"

"To hell with it. I want to talk to you, Geralt. Just you. Forgive me, Alderman."

"What's it to me, Master Irion?" Caldemeyn waved the matter aside and began to walk back to Blaviken. "Take care, Geralt. We'll see each other later, I'm sure. I'll get a man to dispose of the monster, just don't be late for supper."

The witcher approached the inlaid door, which opened a little bit—just enough for him to squeeze through—and then slammed shut, leaving him in complete darkness which flooded his vision. His catlike eyes were blinded but adjusted slowly to the lack of light.

"Hey!" Geralt shouted, not hiding his anger.

"Just a moment," answered a strangely familiar voice. Light came into the tower from an unseen source. Magic, he guessed.

The feeling of being overwhelmed was so unexpected that the witcher staggered and stretched out his hand, looking for support. He didn't find any. There was an orchard spanning before him, blossoming with white and pink, and the sweetness in the air smelled of rain. The sky above, which Geralt knew was not the true sky, was split by a many-colored arc of a rainbow which bound the crowns of the trees to the distant, blue chain of mountains. Yes, this certainly was an illusion. Without acknowledging the fact that witchers could see through such falsities, Geralt would still question it even if he were a small-minded fool. There was a house nestled far back in the orchard, tiny and modest, and drowning in beautiful multicolored hollyhocks.

Geralt suddenly looked down and discovered that he was up to his knees in wild thyme. This illusion, well-crafted and exquisite in the most literal sense possible, was a pleasant one.

"Well, come on, Geralt," said the same voice. "I'm in front of the house."

He entered the orchard, walking through the blooming trees. The sweetness of their blossoms drifted into his nostrils, soothing him. Geralt knew they weren't real; knew what he was seeing and smelling was fake, but it put him at a small measure of ease. This pretty illusion was what he wished the world could be like. Outside of this tower was a bleak, heartbreaking world that was not for the faint of heart. If only a place like this actually existed...

The witcher noticed a quick movement to his left and looked round, eyes catching sight of a fair-haired girl, entirely naked with her hair hanging behind her shoulders, who was walking along a row of small shrubs carrying a brown wicker basket full of the brightest, and probably juiciest, red apples Geralt had ever laid eyes on.

He solemnly promised himself that nothing would surprise him anymore.

"At last!" The voice drew Geralt's eyes from the girl. "Greetings, witcher."

"Stregobor!" Geralt was surprised now.

During his life, the witcher had met thieves who looked like town councilors, councilors who looked like beggars, harlots who looked like princesses, princesses who looked like calving cows and even kings who looked like thieves, but Stregobor always looked as, according to every rule and notion, a wizard was meant to look.

He was tall, thin and stooping low due to the pain of age, with enormous bushy gray eyebrows and a long, crooked nose. Wrinkles interrupted his skin and revealed his years to the world. To top everything off, he wore a black, trailing robe with improbably wide sleeves, and wielded a long staff capped with a clear crystal knob. None of the wizards Geralt knew looked like Stregobor, and none of them acted as he did, either.

Most surprising to the witcher of all facts was that Stregobor was, indeed, a wizard. Somehow. Somewhere along the way, he'd managed to become powerful and revered.

They sat in smooth wicker chairs beside a white marble-topped table on a porch surrounded by the hollyhocks. The naked blonde with the apple basket approached, smiled, turned and, swaying her hips, returned to the orchard. "Is that an illusion, too?" asked Geralt, unashamedly watching the sway with an appreciative eye.

"It is." Stregobor answered. "Like everything here. But it is, my dear friend, a first-class illusion. The flowers smell, you can eat the apples, the bee can sting you, and she"—the wizard indicated the blonde—"Well, you can—"

"Maybe later." Geralt replied, disinterested. He crossed his arms loosely and turned his eyes back to Stregobor.

"Quite right." He nodded. "What are you doing here, Geralt? Are you still toiling away, killing the last representatives of dying species for money? How much did you get for the kikimora? Nothing, I'd guess, or you wouldn't have come here. And to think that there are people who don't believe in destiny. Unless you knew about me... Did you?"

"No, I didn't." Said the witcher. "It's the last place I could have expected you. If my memory serves me correctly, you used to live in a quite similar tower in Kovir." Yes, his memory was returning to him now. This tower, at least the outside, resembled the old place Stregobor had called his home. Briefly, Geralt wondered why the wizard had left.

"A great deal has changed since then."

"Such as your name. Apparently, you're Master Irion now."

"That's the name of the man who created this tower." Stregobor explained. "He died about two hundred years ago, and I thought it right to honor him in some way since I have technically occupied his abode. I'm living here. Most of the inhabitants live off of the sea and, as you know, my speciality, apart from illusions, is weather. Sometimes I'll calm a storm, sometimes conjure one up, sometimes drive schools of whiting and cod closer to the shores with the westerly wind. I can survive. That is," he added, miserably, "I could."

"How come 'I could'? Why the change of name?" Geralt inquired suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

"Destiny has many faces, my friend. Mine is beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. She has stretched her bloody talons toward me—"

"You've not changed a bit, Stregobor." Geralt grimaced and lowered his chin. "You're talking nonsense while making wise and meaningful faces. Can't you speak normally for once?"

"I can," sighed the wizard. "I can if that makes you happy. I made it all the way here, hiding and running from a monstrous being that wants to murder me. My escape proved in vain—it found me. In all probability, it's going to try to kill me tomorrow, or at the latest, the day after."

"Aha," said the witcher dispassionately. "Now I understand."

"My facing death doesn't impress you much, does it?"

"Stregobor," said Geralt, "that's the way of the world. One sees all sorts of things when they travel. Two peasants kill each other over a field which, the following day, will be trampled flat by two counts and their retinues trying to kill each other off. Men hang from trees at the roadside; brigands slash merchants' throats. At every step in town you trip over corpses in the gutters. In palaces, they stab each other with daggers, and somebody falls under the table at a banquet every minute, blue from poisoning. I'm used to it. So why should a death threat impress me, and one directed at you at that?"

"One directed at me at that," Stregobor repeated with a sneer, lip curling. "And I considered you a friend! Counted on your help."

"Our last meeting," said Geralt, "was in the court of King Idi of Kovir. I'd come to be paid for killing the amphisboena which had been terrorizing the neighborhood. You and your compatriot Zavist vied with each other to call me a charlatan, a thoughtless murdering machine and a mere scavenger. Consequently, not only did Idi refuse to pay me a single penny, he gave me twelve hours to leave Kovir and, since his hourglass was broken, I barely made it out of there in time. And now you say you're counting on my help. You say a monster's after you. Ironic, isn't it?" The witcher found their situation to be more amusing than he'd originally guessed it to be. A wizard needing a witcher's help for once?

This is rich.

"Just what are you afraid of, Stregobor?" He asks. "If it catches up with you, tell it you like monsters! That you protect them and make sure no witcher-scavenger ever troubles their peace. Indeed, if the monster disembowels and devours you, it'll prove terribly ungrateful to you."

The wizard turned his head away silently and Geralt laughed. "Don't get all puffed up like a frog, magician. Tell me what's threatening you. We'll see what can be done." Despite his dislike of Stregobor, Geralt knew it was his duty to protect people from monsters, even people as unsavory as the wizard before him.

Stregobor's voice was quiet. "Have you heard of the Curse of the Black Sun?"

"But of course. Except that it was called the 'Mania of Mad Eltibald' after the wizard who started the fucking lark and," Geralt shrugged, "caused dozens of girls from good, even noble, families to be murdered or imprisoned in towers. They were supposed to have been possessed by demons; cursed, contaminated by the Black Sun, because that's what, in your pompous jargon, you called the most ordinary eclipse in the entire world."

"Eltibald wasn't mad at all." Stregobor was desperate to prove he was correct. "He deciphered the writing on Dauk menhirs, on tombstones in the Wozgor necropolises, and examined the legends and traditions of weretots. All of them spoke of the eclipse in no uncertain terms. The Black Sun was to announce the imminent return of Lilit, still honored in the East under the name of Niya, and the extermination of the human race. Lilit's path was to be prepared by 'sixty women wearing gold crowns, who would fill the river valleys with blood.'"

"Nonsense," said the witcher with a scoff. "And what's more, it doesn't rhyme. All decent predictions rhyme. Everyone knows what Eltibald and the Council of Wizards had in mind at the time." He pointed out. "You took advantage of a madman's ravings to strengthen your own authority. To break up alliances, ruin marriage allegiances, stir up dynasties. In a sense: to tangle the strings of crowned puppets even more. And here you are! Lecturing me about predictions, which any old storyteller at the marketplace would be ashamed of because not only are they unbelievable, they're for fools."

Stregobor was undeterred. "You can have your reservations about Eltibald's theories, Geralt, about how the predictions were interpreted. But you can't challenge the fact that there have been horrendous mutations among girls born just after the eclipse."

"And why not?" He challenged. "I've heard quite the opposite."

"I was present when they did an autopsy on one of them," said the wizard. His bushy brows pinched together and revealed his distaste. "Geralt, what we found inside the skull and marrow couldn't be described. Some sort of red sponge-like substance. The internal organs were all mixed up, some were even missing completely. Everything was covered in moving cilia, bluish-pink shreds. The heart was six-chambered, with two chambers practically atrophied. What do you say to that?"

The witcher was unimpressed by this evidence. "I've seen people with eagles' talons instead of hands, people with a wolf's fangs. People with additional joints, additional organs and additional senses. All of which were the effects of your messing about with magic."

"You've seen all sorts of mutations, you say." The magician raised his head. "And how many of them have you slaughtered for money, in keeping with your witcher's calling? Well? Because one can have a wolf's fangs and go no further than baring them at the trollops in taverns, or one can have a wolf's nature, too, and attack children. And that's just how it was with the girls who were born after the eclipse. Their outright insane tendency to cruelty, aggression, sudden bursts of anger and an unbridled temperament were noted. These behavioral traits were present in every single one of them no matter where they came from."

"You can say that about any woman," sneered Geralt. "What are you driveling on about? You're asking me how many mutants I've killed. Why aren't you interested in how many I've extricated from spells, freed from curses? I, a witcher despised by you. And what have you done, you mighty magicians?"

Stregobor remained calm. "A higher magic was used. Ours and that of the priests, in various temples. All attempts ended in the girls' deaths."

"That speaks badly of you, then," Geralt frowned. "Not the girls. And so we've now got the first corpses. I take it the only autopsies were done on them?"

"No. Don't look at me like that; you know very well that there were more corpses, too. It was initially decided, by the entirety of the Council, to eliminate all of them. We got rid of a few... autopsies were done on all of them. One of them was even vivisectioned."

"And you sons of bitches have the nerve to criticize witchers?" Geralt was losing his patience again. He turned his gaze away, staring across the orchard. "Oh, Stregobor, the day will come when people will learn, and get the better of you."

"I don't think a day like that will come soon," said the wizard caustically, eyes following Geralt's. "Don't forget that we were acting in the people's defense. The mutant girls would have drowned entire countries in blood if we hadn't stepped in when we did."

"So say you magicians, turning your noses up, so high and mighty with your auras of infallibility. While we're on the subject," the witcher huffed, "surely you're not going to tell me that in your hunt for these so-called mutants you haven't once made a mistake?"

"All right," said Stregobor after a long silence. It was damning. "I'll be honest, although for my own sake I shouldn't. We did make a mistake—more than one, in fact. Picking them out from ordinary girls was extremely difficult. And that's why we stopped... getting rid of them, and started isolating them instead."

"Your famous towers," snorted the witcher. He knew where the story was going now.

"Our towers." Stregobor confirmed with a little sigh. "But that was another mistake. We underestimated them. Many escaped. Then some mad fashion to free imprisoned beauties took hold of princes, especially the younger ones, who didn't have much to do and still less to lose. Most of them, fortunately, twisted their necks—"

"As far as I know, those imprisoned in the towers died quickly. It's been said you must have helped them somewhat." Geralt turned back to the wizard and examined his reaction closely. If Stregobor dared lie now...

"That's a lie." Unsurprising answer. "But it is true that they quickly fell into apathy and refused to eat... What is interesting is that shortly before they died, they showed signs of the gift of clairvoyance. Further proof of mutation!"

"Your proofs are becoming ever less convincing. Do you have any more?"

"I do. Silvena, the lady of Narok, whom we never managed to get close to because she gained power so quickly. Terrible things are happening in Narok now. Fialka, Evermir's daughter, escaped her tower using a homemade rope and is now terrorizing North Velhad." Stregobor continued down his list. "Bernika of Talgar was freed by an idiot prince. Now he's sitting in a dungeon, blinded, and the most common feature of the Talgar landscape is a set of gallows. There are other examples, too."

"Of course there are," said the witcher. "In Yamurlak, for instance, old man Abrad reigns. He's got scrofula, not a single tooth in his head, was probably born some hundred years before this eclipse, and can't fall asleep unless someone's being tortured to death in his presence. He's wiped out all his relatives and emptied half of the country in crazy—how did you put it? —attacks of anger. There are also traces of a rampant temperament. Apparently he was nicknamed 'Abrad Jack-up-the-Skirt' in his youth. Oh, Stregobor, it would be great if the cruelty of rulers could be explained away by mutations or curses. I suspect then that there would be many more we could list."

"Listen, Geralt—" Stregobor held up a hand.

Geralt waved him off. "No. You won't win me over with your reasons nor convince me that Eltibad wasn't a murdering madman, so let's get back to the monster threatening you. You'd better understand that, after the introduction you've given me, I don't like the story. But I'll still hear you out."

"Without interrupting with spiteful comments?"

"That," Geralt shrugged. "I can't promise."

"Oh well"—Stregobor slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe —"then it'll only take longer. Well, the story begins in Creyden, a small principality in the north. The wife of Fredefalk, the Prince of Creyden, was Aridea, a wise and educated woman. She had many exceptional adepts of the magical arts in her family and—through inheritance, no doubt—she came into possession of a rare and powerful artifact. One of Nehalenia's famed Mirrors. They're chiefly used by prophets and oracles because they predict the future accurately, albeit intricately. Aridea quite often turned to the Mirror—"

"With the usual question, I take it," interrupted Geralt. "'Who is the fairest of them all?' I know; all Nehalenia's Mirrors are either polite or broken."

"You're wrong." The wizard shook his head. "Aridea was more interested in her country's fate. And the Mirror answered her questions by predicting a horrible death for her and for a great number of others by the hand, or fault, of Fredefalk's daughter from his first marriage. Aridea ensured this news reached the Council, and the Council sent me to Creyden. I don't have to add that Fredefalk's firstborn daughter was born shortly after the eclipse. I was quite discreet for a little while. She managed to torture a canary and two puppies during that time, and also gouged out a servant's eye with the handle of a comb. I carried out a few tests using curses, and most of them confirmed that the little one was a mutant. I went to Aridea with the news because Fredefalk's daughter meant the world to him. Aridea, as I said, wasn't stupid—"

"Of course," Geralt interrupted again, "and no doubt she wasn't headover-heels in love with her stepdaughter. She preferred her own children to inherit the throne. I can guess what followed. How come nobody throttled her? And you, too, while they were at it."

Stregobor sighed, raised his eyes to heaven, where the rainbow was still shimmering colorfully and picturesquely. "I wanted to isolate her, but Aridea decided otherwise. She sent the little one out into the forest with a hired thug, a trapper. We found him later in the undergrowth... without any trousers, so it wasn't hard to recreate the turn of events. She had dug a brooch-pin into his brain, through his ear, no doubt while his attention was on entirely different matters."

"If you think I feel sorry for him," muttered Geralt, "then you're wrong."

"We organized a manhunt," continued Stregobor without further comment, "but all traces of the little one had disappeared. I had to leave Creyden in a hurry because Fredefalk was beginning to suspect something. Then, four years later I received news from Aridea. She'd tracked down the little one, who was living in Mahakam with seven gnomes whom she'd managed to convince it was more profitable to rob merchants on the roads than to pollute their lungs with dust from the mines. She was known as Shrike because she liked to impale the people she caught on a sharp pole while they were still alive. Several times Aridea hired assassins, but none of them returned. Well, then it became hard to find anyone to try—Shrike had already become quite famous. She'd learned to use a sword so well there was hardly a man who could defy her. I was summoned, and arrived in Creyden secretly, only to learn that someone had poisoned Aridea. It was generally believed that it was the work of Fredefalk, who had found himself a younger, more robust mistress—but I think it was Renfri."

"Renfri?"

"That's what she was called. I said she'd poisoned Aridea. Shortly afterward, Prince Fredefalk died in a strange hunting accident, and Aridea's eldest son disappeared without a word. That must have been the little one's doing, too. I say 'little' but she was seventeen by then. And she was pretty well-developed.

"Meanwhile," the wizard picked up after a moment's break, "she and her gnomes had become the terror of the whole of Mahakam. Until, one day, they argued about something. I don't know what—sharing out the loot, or whose turn it was to spend the night with her—anyway, they slaughtered each other with knives. Only Shrike survived. Only her. And I was in the neighborhood at the time. We met face-to-face: she recognized me in a flash and knew the part I'd played in Creyden. I tell you, Geralt, I had barely managed to utter a curse—and my hands were shaking like anything—when that wildcat flew at me with a sword. I turned her into a neat slab of mountain crystal, six ells by nine. When she fell into a lethargy, I threw the slab into the gnomes' mine and brought the tunnels down on it."

"Shabby work," noted Geralt as he learned further back into the wicker chair. "That spell could have been reversed. Couldn't you have burnt her to cinders? You know so many nice spells, after all."

"No. It's not my speciality. But you're right. I did make a hash of it." He sighed once more. "Some idiot prince found her, spent a fortune on a counter-curse, reversed the spell and triumphantly took her home to some out-of-the-way kingdom in the east. His father, an old brigand, proved to have more sense. He gave his son a hiding, and questioned Shrike about the treasures which she and the gnomes had seized and which she'd hidden. His mistake was to allow his elder son to assist him when he had her stretched out, naked, on the executioner's bench. Somehow, the following day, that same eldest son— now an orphan bereft of siblings—was ruling the kingdom, and Shrike had taken over the office of first favorite."

"Meaning she can't be ugly."

"That's a matter of taste. She wasn't a favorite for long. Up until the first coup d'état at the palace, to give it a grand name—it was more like a barn. It soon became clear that she hadn't forgotten about me. She tried to assassinate me three times in Kovir. I decided not to risk a fourth attempt and to wait her out in Pontar. Again, she found me. That time I escaped to Angren, but she found me there too. I don't know how she does it! I cover my traces well." Stregobor mused quietly. "It must be a feature of her mutation."

Geralt sighed this time, "What stopped you from casting another spell to turn her into crystal? Scruples?"

"No. I don't have any of those. She had become resistant to magic."

"That's impossible."

"It's not." The wizard was completely serious. "It's enough to have the right artifact or aura. Or this could also be associated with her mutation, which is progressing. I escaped from Angren and hid here, in Arcsea, in Blaviken. I've lived in peace for a year, but she's tracked me down again."

"How do you know?" Geralt's brow furrowed. "Is she already in town?"

"Yes. I saw her in the crystal ball." The wizard raised his wand. "She's not alone. She's leading a gang, which shows me that she's brewing something serious. Geralt, I don't have anywhere else to run. I don't know where I could hide. The fact that you've arrived here exactly at this time can't be a coincidence. It's fate."

The witcher raised his eyebrows. "What's on your mind?"

"Surely it's obvious. You're going to kill her."

"I'm not a hired thug, Stregobor."

"You're not a thug, agreed." The wizard nodded politely.

"I kill monsters for money." Geralt went on. "Beasts which endanger people. Horrors conjured up by spells and sorceries cast by the likes of you. Not people."

"She's not human!" Stregobor raised his voice. "She's exactly a monster: a mutant, a cursed mutant. You brought a kikimora here. Shrike's worse than a kikimora. A kikimora kills because it's hungry, but Shrike does it for pleasure. Kill her and I'll pay you whatever sum you ask. Within good reason, of course."

"I've already told you." The witcher pressed. "I consider this story of yours about mutations and Lilit's curse to be utter nonsense. The girl has her reasons for settling her account with you, and I'm not going to get mixed up in it. Turn to the alderman, to the town guards. You're the town wizard; you're protected by municipal law."

"I spit on the law, the alderman and his help!" exploded Stregobor. "I don't need defense. I need you to kill her! Nobody's going to get into this tower—I'm completely safe here. But what's that to me? I don't intend to spend the rest of my days here, and Shrike's not going to give up while I'm alive. Am I to sit here, in this tower, and wait for death?"

"They did." Geralt snarled. "Do you know what, magician? You should have left that hunt for the girls to other, more powerful, wizards. You should have foreseen the consequences."

"Please, Geralt."

"No, Stregobor." His voice was firm.

The sorcerer fell silent. The unreal sun in its unreal sky hadn't moved toward the zenith but the witcher knew it was already dusk in Blaviken. He felt hungry, and tired of bullshit. This entire visit was a waste of his time.

"Geralt," said Stregobor once more, "when we were listening to Eltibald, many of us had doubts. But we decided to accept the lesser evil. Now I ask you to make a similar choice. If not for my sake, for the sake of the people of Blaviken."

"Evil is evil, Stregobor," said the witcher seriously as he got up from the wicker chair. Despite his initial content with the tower's illusion, it was beginning to tire him. "Lesser, greater, middling, it's all the same. Proportions are negotiated, boundaries blurred. I'm not a pious hermit. I haven't done only good in my life. But if I'm to choose between one evil and another, then I prefer not to choose at all. Time for me to go. We'll see each other tomorrow."

"Maybe," said the wizard. "If you get here in time."