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shuddered, shook and retched dryly. Another stream of blood trickled down the branched,
dried pattern on his mount's neck.
'My good men,' Geralt said as calmly as he could, 'you can see for yourselves how badly he
fares. I have to find someone who can treat him. Let us through. Please.'
'Don't ask.' The guard leant on his halberd. 'Orders are orders. I'll go to the pillory if I let you
through. They'll chase me from service, and then how will I feed my children? No, sir, I can't.
Take your friend down from the horse and put him in the room in the barbican. We'll dress
him and he'll last out until dawn, if that's his fate. It's not long now,'
'A dressing's not enough.' The witcher ground his teeth. 'We need a healer, a priest, a gifted
doctor '
'You wouldn't be waking up anyone like that at night anyway,' said the second guard. 'The
most we can do is see that you don't have to camp out under the gate until dawn. It's warm in
there and there's somewhere to put your friend; he'll fare better there than in the saddle. Come
on, let us help you lower him from the horse.'
It was warm, stuffy and cosy in the room within the barbican. A fire crackled merrily in the
hearth, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely.
Three men sat at the heavy square table laid with jugs and plates.
'Forgive us for disturbing you, squires ...' said the guard, holding Dandilion up. 'I trust you
won't mind . . . This one here is a knight, hmm . .. And the other one is wounded, so I
thought '
'You thought well,' one of the men turned his slender, sharp, expressive face towards them
and got up. 'Here, lay him down on the pallet.'
The man was an elf, like the other one sitting at the table. Both, judging by their clothes,
which were a typical mixture of human and elven fashion, were elves who had settled and
integrated. The third man, who looked the eldest, was human, a knight, judging by the way he
was dressed and by his salt-and-pepper hair, cut to fit beneath a helmet.
'I'm Chireadan,' the taller of the elves, with an expressive face, introduced himself. As was
usual with representatives of the Old People, it was difficult to guess his age; he could have
been twenty or one hundred and twenty. 'This is my cousin Errdil. And this nobleman is the
knight Vratimir.'
'A nobleman,' muttered Geralt, but a closer look at the coat of arms embroidered on his tunic
shattered his hopes: a shield divided per cross and bearing golden lilies was cut diagonally by
a silver bar. Vratimir was not only illegitimate but came from a mixed, human-nonhuman
union. As a result, although he was entitled to use a coat of arms, he couldn't consider himself
a true nobleman, and the privilege of crossing the city gate after dusk most certainly wasn't
extended to him.
'Unfortunately,' - the witcher's scrutiny did not escape the elf's attention - 'we, too, have to
remain here until dawn. The law knows no exceptions, at least not for the likes of us. We
invite you to join our company, sir knight.'
'Geralt, of Rivia,' the witcher introduced himself. 'A witcher, not a knight.'
'What's the matter with him?' Chireadan indicated Dandilion, whom the guards had laid on a
pallet in the meantime. 'It looks like poisoning. If it is poisoning, then I can help. I've got
some good medicine with me.'
Geralt sat down, then quickly gave a guarded account of events at the river. The elves looked
at each other, and the knight spat through his teeth and frowned.
'Extraordinary,' Chireadan remarked. 'What could it have been?'
'A djinn in a bottle,' muttered Vratimir. 'Like a fairy tale '
'Not quite.' Geralt indicated Dandilion, curled up on the pallet. 'I don't know of any fairy tale
that ends like this.'
'That poor fellow's injuries,' said Chireadan, 'are evidently of a magical nature. I fear that my
medicine will not be of much use. But I can at least lessen his suffering. Have you already
given him a remedy, Geralt?'
'A painkilling elixir.'
'Come and help me. You can hold his head up.'
Dandilion greedily drank the medicine, diluted with wine, choked on his last sip, wheezed and
covered the leather pillow with spittle.
'I know him,' Errdil said. 'He's Dandilion, the troubadour and poet. I saw him singing at the
court of King Ethain in Cidaris once.'
'A troubadour,' repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. 'That's bad. Very bad. The muscles of
his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The
spell's action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise . . . This might be irreversible.'
'That means . . . Does that mean he won't be able to talk?'
'Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.'
Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched
fists.
'A wizard,' said Vratimir. 'A magical remedy or a curative spell is needed. You have to take
him to some other town, witcher.'
'What?' Geralt raised his head. 'And here, in Rinde? Isn't there a wizard here?' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]