Don't Do Evil Just Because It's Small (2)

The two walked out of the tavern and began their conversation in the alley behind it.

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, looked into the woman's eyes, and said calmly, "I know why you're here, Renfri. Stregobor is dead."

Renfri raised her eyebrows in surprise and covered her mouth with an affected gesture: "Oh! Thank you, thank you! Heroic witcher! You've saved me—you don't actually expect me to believe that, do you, White-hair?"

She laughed wantonly, but the witcher's unchanging, calm expression made her gradually realize something, and Renfri's smile vanished abruptly. That beautiful face showed neither sorrow nor joy as she asked faintly, "Truly dead?"

"I saw it with my own eyes."

"Take me to see him. As long as I see with my own eyes that he is dead—then this matter is over," she said with iron-clad finality.

Geralt signaled for her to follow him. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the granite tower under the cover of night. Renfri cautiously gestured for the witcher to use the Space Gate first; the witcher knew her six companions had been following not far behind the whole time, though he had no idea how this woman communicated with them.

But he didn't care. Because Stregobor was indeed dead.

The witcher pushed the door open. The interior of the tower was a mess, and Stregobor's cold corpse lay on the floor amidst pots and pans, his wide-open eyes staring at the top of the tower. Geralt still remembered that bolt of lightning, but for some reason, it hadn't charred Stregobor. He Shenyan had explained that it was soul lightning. Geralt had never had much of a knack for understanding the spells of mages, but he was quite glad now that it was soul lightning; otherwise, a charred corpse wouldn't have been enough to satisfy this woman.

Renfri looked at the body.

She stood where she was and began to tremble, hot tears streaming from her eyes. She drew the dagger at her waist and strode forward, intending to do something to Stregobor's corpse. The witcher reached out a hand to stop her. The woman continued to curse Stregobor, using such vitriol that even the witcher couldn't help but look away. She wept and cursed, her voice already hoarse. She even tried to throw the dagger in her hand to stab a hole in Stregobor's body.

The dagger clattered against the floor.

A few minutes later, she slowly calmed down. Geralt released her and stepped aside. Renfri knelt on the ground, staring blankly ahead, and said to the witcher, "Do you want to hear a story, White-hair?"

Geralt crossed his arms and gave a grunt of assent.

"You know, don't look at me like this; I used to be a princess. I had everything: servants who bowed to my every command, luxurious clothes and shoes. Jewelry, trinkets, ponies, goldfish in the pond, and dozens of towers like this one. They all belonged to me."

"Until that son of a bitch came. Then that base Aridea ordered a huntsman to kill me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. How wonderful, isn't it?"

"But you didn't die."

"Yes, yes! Because that huntsman raped me!"

Geralt lowered his head and fiddled with his wolf-head medallion.

"While he was busy, I blinded him with a brooch. Then I started to run."

"That was the end of the princess—clothes in rags, filthy and wretched. Then came the grime, the hunger, the stench, and the abuse. To survive, I sold myself to old vagrants just for a bowl of soup or a place to sleep," she continued, her tone devoid of emotion, as if she were telling someone else's story. Geralt thought that perhaps, for her, that really was a past life.

She touched her hair, pulled out a clump—stained with blood—and held it up before the witcher's eyes: "You know, White-hair, my hair used to be like silk, and very, very long. But I couldn't even bathe, and I got lice. I was forced to cut it off at the roots with a pair of old, rusted wool shears. It was once my pride, but now, my hair will never grow back evenly."

She fell silent for a moment, brushing a stray lock from her forehead in vain. "I stole so I wouldn't starve. I killed so I wouldn't be killed. I was locked in dungeons that reeked of urine, never knowing if they would hang me the next morning or whip me and let me go. But even so, my stepmother and that old bastard Stregobor kept hunting me down with poisons, assassins, and magic."

"Aridea and Stregobor wanted to poison you?"

"With an apple coated in nightshade. A dwarf saved me with an emetic that made me vomit up my own insides. I survived."

"One of the seven dwarves?"

Renfri froze, then suddenly began to laugh.

"Oh," she said, "you know quite a bit about me. Do you have any tricks for dealing with dwarves? They treated me better than most humans. Stregobor and Aridea hunted me like a beast until the day I became the hunter. Aridea died in her own bed. She was lucky; I didn't get the chance to get close to her—I had prepared something special for her. What a pity."

Geralt remained silent. After a while, he asked, "Do you know why Stregobor and the Prince's wife wanted to kill you?"

Renfri suddenly straightened up and roared shrilly, "It's obvious! I was the heir. Aridea's children were just bastards with no rights at all. That old bitch just wanted her own children to take the throne!"

"No," the witcher said calmly.

Renfri lowered her head, but only for an instant. A sharp glint flashed in her eyes: "Fine, they thought I was cursed, tainted in my mother's womb. They thought I was..."

"What?"

"A monster."

"Are you?"

For a moment, she looked helpless, shocked, and deeply sorrowful.

"I don't know, Geralt," she whispered. Then her expression turned serious again. "Damn it, how could I know? My fingers bleed when I cut them. I bleed every month. I get bloated when I eat too much and hungover when I drink. I sing when I'm happy, curse when I'm sad, kill when I hate—and I—enough!"

She slumped to the floor, as if all her strength had left her, and her tone became numb: "Give him to me, and then I'll leave."

"Stregobor once wanted me to kill you," the witcher changed the subject.

"Did you agree?"

"I am no executioner, Renfri. I kill monsters, but I don't kill a poor girl."

Renfri laughed aloud, her laughter echoing in the cold tower, over the corpse of Stregobor: "You—a mutated freak, think I'm poor?!"

She stood up, slammed the witcher against the stone wall, and roared into his face: "I don't need your pity! Do you hear me! I just want his corpse! Give him to me!"

Even at this point, Geralt did not lose his composure. He simply pushed the girl away gently: "He is already dead, Renfri. Look at his body; he is already dead."

Renfri whispered, almost a murmur: "Yes, but not by my own hand."

She raised her head; her makeup was ruined, and she laughed through her tears, not caring: "Doesn't matter, right? He's dead anyway, and my life can never go back to how it was."

Geralt shook his head and turned to leave, but Renfri called him back. She tore open her clothes, revealing her skin, tears still hanging on her face. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were crying: "Come on, witcher. Don't you want to spend the night with me? Anything you want—gold, me, even someone else's life. Just give me his corpse."

"I only want this, anything at all, I beg you," she pleaded.

Geralt sighed. He stepped forward, pulled Renfri's clothes shut, held her, and said softly, "He is already dead, Renfri."

The girl finally burst into tears.

The next day, when they left Blaviken, the body of Stregobor had already been buried, undisturbed. It was, one might say, a miracle that he remained in one piece after all the evil he had done.

Renfri had vanished with her men after that night. Geralt did not know where she was going, nor did he intend to ask. The witcher simply wished her a smooth journey from the bottom of his heart.

He rode along the country lanes with his new companion. Geralt was still riding his Roach—every horse he owned was named Roach, even this tired, thin old nag. The horse belonging to He Shenyan, however, looked quite different: its coat was sleek and black, and it was tall and sturdy, looking remarkably handsome.

Geralt cast a casual glance at it and remarked, "That is a fine horse."

He Shenyan pretended not to notice his thoughts and agreed with a faint smile, "Indeed."