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The tome you hold in your hands is a compilation of a magnitude of notes and drafts, both those authored by myself and those I managed to acquire, copy, or otherwise procure during my many travels. For I have grown fond of collecting observations and information gleaned through lively conversation, so that they might serve posterity as inspiration or cause for reflection. Most of the notes penned by my hand served as the bases for the creation of my own great work; my memoirs, entitled Half a Century of Poetry. I shall hasten to add, happily spitting in the face of false modesty, that any person would who care for his reputation as an educated and well-read man, and not a simplton and boor, should acquaint himself with that tome. For those not already familiar with this masterpiece of wit, thrilling adventure, and charming verse, it is undoubtably available at your nearest purveyor of fine literature, or in the homes of your more cultured and discerning friends. Yet a great many of the documents I gathered could not find their way into the aforementioned book. These were, for the most part, texts written by persons other than myself, and therefore, quite understandably, they could not be included in my memoirs. |
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| - Dandelion, pg. 7 The World of the Witcher | |||
Half a Century of Poetry is a volume of works by Dandelion, his memoirs.[1] It was originally intended to be called "Fifty Years of Poetry" but Regis managed to convince the bard to change the title to a more "poetic" one.[citation needed]
Excerpts[]
To say I knew her would be an exaggeration. I think that, apart from the Witcher and the enchantress, no one really knew her. When I saw her for the first time she did not make a great impression on me at all, even in spite of the quite extraordinary accompanying circumstances. I have known people who said that, right away, from the very first encounter, they sensed the foretaste of death striding behind the girl. To me she seemed utterly ordinary, though I knew that ordinary she was not; for which reason I tried to discern, discover–sense–the singularity in her. But I noticed nothing and sensed nothing. Nothing that could have been a signal, a presentiment or a harbinger of those subsequent, tragic events. Events caused by her very existence. And those she caused by her actions.
pg. 48, Time of Contempt (U.S. edition)
We know little about love. Love is like a pear. A pear is sweet and has a distinct shape. Try to define the shape of a pear.
pg. 106, Time of Contempt (U.S. edition)
I have met many military men in my life. I have known marshals, generals, commanders and governors, the victors of numerous campaigns and battles. I've listened to their stories and recollections. I've seen them poring over maps, drawing lines of various colors on them, making plans, thinking up strategies. In those paper wars everything worked, everything functioned, everything was clear and everything was in exemplary order. That's how it has to be, explained the military men. The army represents discipline and order above all. The army cannot exist without discipline and order.
So it is all the stranger that real wars–and I have seen several real wars–have as much in common with discipline and order as a whorehouse with a fire raging through it.
So it is all the stranger that real wars–and I have seen several real wars–have as much in common with discipline and order as a whorehouse with a fire raging through it.
pg. 44, Baptism of Fire (U.S. edition)
I have often been asked what made me decide to write my memoirs. Many people seemed interested in the moment my memoirs began, namely what fact, event or incident gave rise to the writing. Formerly, I gave various explanations and often lied, but now, howbeit, I pay homage to the truth. For today, now that my hair has thinned and is going white, I know the truth is a precious seed, while a lie is but contemptible chaff.
And the truth is thus: the event which gave rise to everything, to which I owe the first notes, from which my subsequent life's work was formed, was the accidental discovery of paper and pencil among the things that my company and I stole from the Lyrian military convoys. It happened...
And the truth is thus: the event which gave rise to everything, to which I owe the first notes, from which my subsequent life's work was formed, was the accidental discovery of paper and pencil among the things that my company and I stole from the Lyrian military convoys. It happened...
pg. 73, The Tower of the Swallow (U.S. edition)
I consider gazing into the abyss utter foolishness. There are many things in the world much more worth gazing into.
pg. V, Season of Storms (U.K. edition)
Guard against disappointments, because appearances can deceive. Things that are really as they seem are rare. And a woman is never as she seems.
pg. 43, Season of Storms (U.K. edition)
I shall reveal one secret to you. About witcher swords. It's poppycock that they have some kind of secret power. And that they are supposedly wonderful weapons. That there are no better ones. It's all fiction, invented for the sake of appearances. I know this from a quite certain source.
pg. 79, Season of Storms (U.K. edition)
Verily, the Witcher was greatly in my debt. More and more every day.
The visit to Pyral Pratt in Ravelin, which ended, as you know, turbulently and bloodily, brought certain benefits, however. Geralt had picked up the sword thief's trail. It was to my credit, in a way, for it was I, using my cunning, who led Geralt to Ravelin. And the following day it was I, and no other, who fitted Geralt out with a new weapon. I couldn't bear to see him unarmed. You'll say that a witcher is never unarmed? That he is a mutant well-versed in every form of combat, twice as strong as a normal fellow and ten times as fast? Who can fell three armed thugs with a cooper's oaken stave in no time. That to cap it all he can work magic using his Signs, which are no mean weapon? True. But a sword is a sword. He repeated relentlessly that he felt naked without a sword. So, I fitted him out with one.
Pratt, as you now know, rewarded the Witcher and I financially, none too generously, but I mustn't grumble. The next day, as Geralt had instructed me, I hurried with the cheque to the Giancardi branch and cashed it. I'm standing there, looking around. And I see that somebody is observing me intently. A lady, not too old, but also not in the first flush of youth, tastefully and elegantly attired. I am no stranger to a lady's delighted look; plenty of women find my manly and wolfish features irresistible.
The lady suddenly walks over, introduces herself as Etna Asider and claims to know me. Huh, what a thing! Everybody knows me, my fame precedes me, wherever I go.
'News has reached me, m'lord poet,' she says, 'about the unfortunate accident that befell your comrade, the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. I know he has lost his weapons and is in urgent need of new ones. I am also aware that a good sword is hard to find. It so happens that I possess one. Left by my deceased husband, may the Gods have mercy upon his soul. At this very moment, I've come to the bank to sell the sword; for what could a widow want with a sword? The bank has valued it and wants to take it on a commission basis. While I, nonetheless, am in urgent need for ready coin, for I needs[sic] must pay the debts of the deceased, otherwise my creditors will torment me. Thus...'
Upon which the lady picks up a roll of damask and unwraps a sword from it. A marvel, let me tell you. Light as a feather. The scabbard tasteful and elegant, the hilt of lizard's skin, the cross guard gilt, with a jasper the size of a pigeon's egg in the pommel. I draw it and can't believe my eyes. A punch in the shape of the sun on the blade; just above the cross guard. And just beyond it the inscription: Draw me not without reason; sheath me not without honour. Meaning the blade was wrought in the Nilfgaardian city of Viroleda, a place famous throughout the world for its armourers' forges. I touch the blade with the tip of my thumb - razor-sharp, I swear.
Since I'm nobody's fool, I betray nothing, I look on indifferently as the bank clerks bustle around and some poor old woman polishes the brass doorknobs.
'The Giancardis' bank,' quoth the little widow, 'valued the sword at two hundred crowns. For official sale. But for cash in hand I'll part with it for a hundred and fifty.' 'Ho, ho,' I reply. "A hundred and fifty is a deal of money. You can buy a house for that. A small one. In the suburbs.'
'Oh, Lord Dandelion.' The woman wrings her hands, shedding a tear. 'You're mocking me. You are a cruel fellow, sir, to take advantage of a widow so. Since I am trapped, so be it: a hundred.'
And thus, my dears, I solved the Witcher's problem.
I scurry off to The Crab and Garfish, Geralt is already sitting there over his bacon and scrambled eggs, ha, no doubt there was white cheese and chives for breakfast at the red-headed witch's. I stride up and — clang! — I slam the sword down on the table. Dumbfounding him. He drops his spoon, draws the weapon from the scabbard and examines it. His countenance stony. But I am accustomed to his mutant state and know that emotions have no effect on him. No matter how delighted or happy he might be, he doesn't betray it.
'How much did you give for it?'
I wished to answer that it wasn't his business, but I recalled in time that I had paid with his money. So I confessed. He squeezed my arm, didn't say a word, the expression on his face unchanged. That is him all over. Simple, but sincere.
And he told me he was setting off. Alone.
'I'd like you to stay in Kerack.' He anticipated my protests. 'And keep your eyes and ears open.'
He told me what had happened the previous day, about his evening conversation with Prince Egmund. And fidgeted with the Viroledian sword the whole time, like a child with a new toy.
'I don't mean to serve the duke,' he recapitulated. 'Nor participate in the royal nuptials in August in the role of bodyguard. Egmund and your cousin are certain they will seize the sword thief forthwith. I don't share their optimism. And that actually suits me. With my swords, Egmund would have an advantage over me. I prefer to catch the thief myself, in Novigrad in July, before the auction at the Borsodys'. I'd get my swords back and I wouldn't show my face in Kerack again. And you, Dandelion, keep your mouth shut. No one can know what Pratt told us. No one. Including your cousin the instigator.'
I promised to be as silent as the grave. While he looked at me strangely. Quite as though he didn't trust me.
'And because anything might happen,' he continued, 'I must have an alternative plan. I'd like to know as much as possible about Egmund and his siblings, about all the possible pretenders to the throne, about the king himself, about the whole, dear royal family. I'd like to know what they're planning and plotting. Who's in with whom, what factions are active here and so on. Is that clear?'
'You don't want to involve Lytta Neyd in this, I gather,' I responded. 'And rightly so, I think. The red-haired beauty certainly has perfect insight into the matters interesting you, but the local monarchy binds her too much for her to consider double loyalty, for one thing. And for another, don't let on that you'll soon flee and won't be showing up again. Because her reaction may be violent. Sorceresses, as you've found out directly, don't like it when people disappear.
'As regards the rest,' I promised, "you can count on me. I shall have my ears and eyes in readiness and directed at where they're needed. And I've become acquainted with the dear, local royal family and heard enough gossip. Our Gracious King Belohun has produced numerous offspring. He has changed his wife quite often. Whenever he spots a new one, the old one conveniently bids farewell to this world, by an unfortunate twist of fate, suddenly falling into infirmity, in the face of which medicine turns out to be impotent. In this way, the king has four legal sons today, each one with a different mother. Not counting his innumerable daughters, as they can't pretend to the throne. Or bastards. It's worth mentioning, however, that all the significant positions and offices in Kerack are filled by his daughters' husbands—my cousin Ferrant is an exception. And his illegitimate sons manage commerce and industry.'
The Witcher, I heed, is listening attentively.
'The four legitimate sons,' I go on, 'are, in order of seniority, the firstborn, whose name I don't know; it's forbidden to mention his name at court. After a quarrel with his father he went away and disappeared without trace, no one has seen him since. The second, Elmer, is a deranged drunk kept under lock and key. It's supposedly a state secret, but in Kerack it's common knowledge. Egmund and Xander are the real pretenders. They detest each other, and Belohun exploits it cunningly, keeping both of them in a state of permanent uncertainty. In matters of the succession he is also often capable of ostentatiously favouring one of the bastards, and tantalising him with promises. Whereas now it's whispered in dark corners that he has promised the crown to the son to be borne by his new wife, the one he's officially marrying at Lughnasadh. 'Cousin Ferrant and I think, however, that they are but fine words,' I continue, 'used by the old prick with the intention of stirring the young thing to sexual fervour, since Egmund and Xander are the only true heirs to the throne. And if it comes to a coup d'état it'll be carried out by one of the two. I've met them both, through my cousin. They are both—I had the impression—as slippery as turds in mayonnaise. If you know what I mean.'
Geralt confirmed he knew and that he had the same impression when he spoke to Egmund, only he was unable to express it in such beautiful words. Then he pondered deeply.
'I'll return soon,' he finally said. 'And you, don't sit around, and keep an eye on things.'
'Before we say farewell,' I responded, 'be a good chap and tell me something about your witch's pupil. The one with the slicked-down hair. She's a true rosebud, all she needs is a little work and she'll bloom wonderfully. So I've decided that I'll devote myself—' Geralt's face, however, changed. Without warning he slammed his fist down on the table, making the mugs jump. 'Keep your paws well away from Mozaïk, busker,' he started on me without a trace of respect. 'Knock that idea out of your head. Don't you know that sorceresses' pupils are strictly prohibited from even the most innocent flirting? For the smallest offence of that kind Coral will decide she's not worth teaching and send her back to the school, which is an awful embarrassment and loss of face for a pupil. I've heard of suicides caused by that. And there's no fooling around with Coral. She doesn't have a sense of humour.'
I felt like advising him to try tickling her with a hen's feather in her intergluteal cleft. For such a measure can cheer up even the greatest of sourpusses. But I said nothing, for I know him. He can't bear anyone to talk tactlessly about his women. Even brief dalliances. Thus, I swore on my honour that I would strike the slicked-down novice's chastity from the agenda and not even woo her. 'If that stings you so much,' he said brightly as he was leaving, 'then know that I met a lady lawyer in the local court. She looked willing. Pursue her instead.' Not on your life. What, does he expect me to bed the judiciary? Although, on the other hand...
The visit to Pyral Pratt in Ravelin, which ended, as you know, turbulently and bloodily, brought certain benefits, however. Geralt had picked up the sword thief's trail. It was to my credit, in a way, for it was I, using my cunning, who led Geralt to Ravelin. And the following day it was I, and no other, who fitted Geralt out with a new weapon. I couldn't bear to see him unarmed. You'll say that a witcher is never unarmed? That he is a mutant well-versed in every form of combat, twice as strong as a normal fellow and ten times as fast? Who can fell three armed thugs with a cooper's oaken stave in no time. That to cap it all he can work magic using his Signs, which are no mean weapon? True. But a sword is a sword. He repeated relentlessly that he felt naked without a sword. So, I fitted him out with one.
Pratt, as you now know, rewarded the Witcher and I financially, none too generously, but I mustn't grumble. The next day, as Geralt had instructed me, I hurried with the cheque to the Giancardi branch and cashed it. I'm standing there, looking around. And I see that somebody is observing me intently. A lady, not too old, but also not in the first flush of youth, tastefully and elegantly attired. I am no stranger to a lady's delighted look; plenty of women find my manly and wolfish features irresistible.
The lady suddenly walks over, introduces herself as Etna Asider and claims to know me. Huh, what a thing! Everybody knows me, my fame precedes me, wherever I go.
'News has reached me, m'lord poet,' she says, 'about the unfortunate accident that befell your comrade, the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia. I know he has lost his weapons and is in urgent need of new ones. I am also aware that a good sword is hard to find. It so happens that I possess one. Left by my deceased husband, may the Gods have mercy upon his soul. At this very moment, I've come to the bank to sell the sword; for what could a widow want with a sword? The bank has valued it and wants to take it on a commission basis. While I, nonetheless, am in urgent need for ready coin, for I needs[sic] must pay the debts of the deceased, otherwise my creditors will torment me. Thus...'
Upon which the lady picks up a roll of damask and unwraps a sword from it. A marvel, let me tell you. Light as a feather. The scabbard tasteful and elegant, the hilt of lizard's skin, the cross guard gilt, with a jasper the size of a pigeon's egg in the pommel. I draw it and can't believe my eyes. A punch in the shape of the sun on the blade; just above the cross guard. And just beyond it the inscription: Draw me not without reason; sheath me not without honour. Meaning the blade was wrought in the Nilfgaardian city of Viroleda, a place famous throughout the world for its armourers' forges. I touch the blade with the tip of my thumb - razor-sharp, I swear.
Since I'm nobody's fool, I betray nothing, I look on indifferently as the bank clerks bustle around and some poor old woman polishes the brass doorknobs.
'The Giancardis' bank,' quoth the little widow, 'valued the sword at two hundred crowns. For official sale. But for cash in hand I'll part with it for a hundred and fifty.' 'Ho, ho,' I reply. "A hundred and fifty is a deal of money. You can buy a house for that. A small one. In the suburbs.'
'Oh, Lord Dandelion.' The woman wrings her hands, shedding a tear. 'You're mocking me. You are a cruel fellow, sir, to take advantage of a widow so. Since I am trapped, so be it: a hundred.'
And thus, my dears, I solved the Witcher's problem.
I scurry off to The Crab and Garfish, Geralt is already sitting there over his bacon and scrambled eggs, ha, no doubt there was white cheese and chives for breakfast at the red-headed witch's. I stride up and — clang! — I slam the sword down on the table. Dumbfounding him. He drops his spoon, draws the weapon from the scabbard and examines it. His countenance stony. But I am accustomed to his mutant state and know that emotions have no effect on him. No matter how delighted or happy he might be, he doesn't betray it.
'How much did you give for it?'
I wished to answer that it wasn't his business, but I recalled in time that I had paid with his money. So I confessed. He squeezed my arm, didn't say a word, the expression on his face unchanged. That is him all over. Simple, but sincere.
And he told me he was setting off. Alone.
'I'd like you to stay in Kerack.' He anticipated my protests. 'And keep your eyes and ears open.'
He told me what had happened the previous day, about his evening conversation with Prince Egmund. And fidgeted with the Viroledian sword the whole time, like a child with a new toy.
'I don't mean to serve the duke,' he recapitulated. 'Nor participate in the royal nuptials in August in the role of bodyguard. Egmund and your cousin are certain they will seize the sword thief forthwith. I don't share their optimism. And that actually suits me. With my swords, Egmund would have an advantage over me. I prefer to catch the thief myself, in Novigrad in July, before the auction at the Borsodys'. I'd get my swords back and I wouldn't show my face in Kerack again. And you, Dandelion, keep your mouth shut. No one can know what Pratt told us. No one. Including your cousin the instigator.'
I promised to be as silent as the grave. While he looked at me strangely. Quite as though he didn't trust me.
'And because anything might happen,' he continued, 'I must have an alternative plan. I'd like to know as much as possible about Egmund and his siblings, about all the possible pretenders to the throne, about the king himself, about the whole, dear royal family. I'd like to know what they're planning and plotting. Who's in with whom, what factions are active here and so on. Is that clear?'
'You don't want to involve Lytta Neyd in this, I gather,' I responded. 'And rightly so, I think. The red-haired beauty certainly has perfect insight into the matters interesting you, but the local monarchy binds her too much for her to consider double loyalty, for one thing. And for another, don't let on that you'll soon flee and won't be showing up again. Because her reaction may be violent. Sorceresses, as you've found out directly, don't like it when people disappear.
'As regards the rest,' I promised, "you can count on me. I shall have my ears and eyes in readiness and directed at where they're needed. And I've become acquainted with the dear, local royal family and heard enough gossip. Our Gracious King Belohun has produced numerous offspring. He has changed his wife quite often. Whenever he spots a new one, the old one conveniently bids farewell to this world, by an unfortunate twist of fate, suddenly falling into infirmity, in the face of which medicine turns out to be impotent. In this way, the king has four legal sons today, each one with a different mother. Not counting his innumerable daughters, as they can't pretend to the throne. Or bastards. It's worth mentioning, however, that all the significant positions and offices in Kerack are filled by his daughters' husbands—my cousin Ferrant is an exception. And his illegitimate sons manage commerce and industry.'
The Witcher, I heed, is listening attentively.
'The four legitimate sons,' I go on, 'are, in order of seniority, the firstborn, whose name I don't know; it's forbidden to mention his name at court. After a quarrel with his father he went away and disappeared without trace, no one has seen him since. The second, Elmer, is a deranged drunk kept under lock and key. It's supposedly a state secret, but in Kerack it's common knowledge. Egmund and Xander are the real pretenders. They detest each other, and Belohun exploits it cunningly, keeping both of them in a state of permanent uncertainty. In matters of the succession he is also often capable of ostentatiously favouring one of the bastards, and tantalising him with promises. Whereas now it's whispered in dark corners that he has promised the crown to the son to be borne by his new wife, the one he's officially marrying at Lughnasadh. 'Cousin Ferrant and I think, however, that they are but fine words,' I continue, 'used by the old prick with the intention of stirring the young thing to sexual fervour, since Egmund and Xander are the only true heirs to the throne. And if it comes to a coup d'état it'll be carried out by one of the two. I've met them both, through my cousin. They are both—I had the impression—as slippery as turds in mayonnaise. If you know what I mean.'
Geralt confirmed he knew and that he had the same impression when he spoke to Egmund, only he was unable to express it in such beautiful words. Then he pondered deeply.
'I'll return soon,' he finally said. 'And you, don't sit around, and keep an eye on things.'
'Before we say farewell,' I responded, 'be a good chap and tell me something about your witch's pupil. The one with the slicked-down hair. She's a true rosebud, all she needs is a little work and she'll bloom wonderfully. So I've decided that I'll devote myself—' Geralt's face, however, changed. Without warning he slammed his fist down on the table, making the mugs jump. 'Keep your paws well away from Mozaïk, busker,' he started on me without a trace of respect. 'Knock that idea out of your head. Don't you know that sorceresses' pupils are strictly prohibited from even the most innocent flirting? For the smallest offence of that kind Coral will decide she's not worth teaching and send her back to the school, which is an awful embarrassment and loss of face for a pupil. I've heard of suicides caused by that. And there's no fooling around with Coral. She doesn't have a sense of humour.'
I felt like advising him to try tickling her with a hen's feather in her intergluteal cleft. For such a measure can cheer up even the greatest of sourpusses. But I said nothing, for I know him. He can't bear anyone to talk tactlessly about his women. Even brief dalliances. Thus, I swore on my honour that I would strike the slicked-down novice's chastity from the agenda and not even woo her. 'If that stings you so much,' he said brightly as he was leaving, 'then know that I met a lady lawyer in the local court. She looked willing. Pursue her instead.' Not on your life. What, does he expect me to bed the judiciary? Although, on the other hand...
a passage of a rough draft never officially published, pg. 103-107 Season of Storms (U.K. edition)