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Dark rocks must menace from the shore,
And thunderheads grow large with rain;
Lightning must flash above the lake,
And I must mirror and pass on,
Onward and onward without end.
A.Mickiewicz, translated by Cecil Hemley
‘Traitor,’ whispers something in the shadows. ‘Oath-breaker,’ weaves itself into the crickets’ song. ‘Murderer,’ murmur the little drops in the streams. ‘Fratricide,’ laugh the leaves on sweet summer days. ‘Coward’ is the one Olgierd uses himself. After all that, ‘coward’ still hurts the most.
But he is one, isn’t he? Too afraid of losing the girl to fight for her by fair, ordinary methods. They might have escaped, he muses now, had he tried to persuade her harder. They might have escaped and then forced some priest to listen to them swearing to and blessing each other. Neither Iris’ parents nor the prince would have dared to break such a vow. But he was a coward, deep in his heart, unsure of his worth, unsure of his position, unsure of Iris’ love—such foolishness!—and afraid of long, hard work. So he sought the aid of black magic. So he destroyed everything.
Iris comes to him at night. Sometimes. Maybe it’s she who whispers. Or so he thinks, for he cannot check—the power of black magic left him, when Geralt bailed out his soul—and this drives him almost mad again. Maybe all the way mad.
Iris comes and whispers in his ears, in his head, in his heart; with cold, light breezes and shivers; with dreams and fantasies he can’t deny himself, even if he hates himself for it in the morning; with the smell of familiar perfume. Iris comes with glimpses of someone’s black hair, with someone’s low laughter... With anything, really. And Olgierd is in no position to punish people for having black hair or low laughter, not now. Maybe not ever again. He is trying to become less self-absorbed, less proud. He thinks he owes Geralt that much.
He still tends to think too much for his own good and that, strangely, comforts him, the same way the accusatory whispers and Iris’ dark presence do. It’s less lonely with them.
Although, of course, Iris doesn’t deserve to be bound to this world forever. Definitely not just to accompany him. He should find a way to help her move on, maybe even ask Geralt for advice. He doesn’t. He tells himself he just doesn’t want to bother him, not after everything he has already done. He tells himself Iris deserves better than to be exorcised again by the man who took her place as Olgierd’s support and companion. He tells himself he deserves this punishment. And then, deep at night—
“I’m just a selfish bastard,” Olgierd sighs, looking through the inn’s window, “and don’t want to lose again. You. Love. Purpose. Anything.”
The moon agrees. Olgierd thinks he sees Iris’ silhouette in the shadow of the apple-tree. She doesn’t move and he doesn’t turn to face her. He likes his delusions.
“I should meet with the family. Geralt said they’re bound to our tomb. And now, when the deal is gone... I’ll face them sooner or later. Will have to tell my brother I betrayed him.” He laughs, quietly. “Might as well bear their anger now—now I can at least walk away. No option like that after death, right, Iris?” He is still looking at the sky, not the apple-tree, and she—if it’s her—is still silent. “Maybe I should play matchmaker. I think you’d like Vlodimir. He was—Geralt said he still is—nothing like me. I was the one leading the forays, he just tagged along, because he was my little brother.” Olgierd cracks a smile. “He liked... likes dancing, fooling around, flirting with girls. These kind of things. He’d make you laugh again.” Swallows. “He’d never hurt you.”
Nor, to be honest, would the Ofieri prince have hurt her.
‘Traitor’, blink the stars. Olgierd nods in agreement. He owed much to Ofier, too, after all.
“If I had known how it would end, I’d never have struck that deal,” he murmurs melancholically.
There’s a voice in the silence of the yard—‘liar’—and Olgierd tenses immediately, because it sounds just like that one—and Geralt said he couldn’t banish the Evil, not truly, he could just render the deal void—‘Liar,’ it repeats, ‘you would have done exactly the same, for it gave you the girl you’d wanted, the things you’d desired; for it soothed your pride...’
“Shut up.”
‘If you really were sorry, you’d go to that tomb. You’d try to make amends. Maybe even apologise to all the common people you have hurt. But you’re just a Redanian noble, true to your blood, pumping through your veins with hubris and power. You dream in red and gold, in blood, screams and fire.’
“Shut up!” This time Olgierd screams consciously, turning away from the window and throwing a knife at the wall. In vain—and perhaps it’s for the better.
If he ever visited the family tomb, after asking Geralt for advice about ghost-calling—eh. He can imagine how that would go. He would admit what he had done. They would start screaming about how disappointed they are. He would get angry. He would remind them how disappointed he was when the damn Borsodis were auctioning their house, taking away the furniture, the paintings, the—everything. And then he would storm out. The whole visit would end in disaster.
“It’s just a little, harmless fantasy, not—not a plan.” Olgierd takes the knife out of the wall. It’s still trembling from the power of impact.
‘Like deals with mirrors?’ murmurs something behind his back. He immediately turns around, jumps to the window—but there’s nothing. Nothing. Even below the apple-tree.
“All right,” he sighs. “I’ll go there. I’ll ask Geralt for advice about ghosts. I’ll write to him tomorrow.” He shuts his eyes and closes the shutters . “He’s probably very busy, though. So... the day after tomorrow. Or at the end of the week.”