فصل 3

CHAPTER THREE

“Your fears were unfounded, entirely ungrounded.” Triss grimaced, resting her elbows on the table. “The time when wizards used to hunt Sources and magically gifted children, tearing them from their parents or guardians by force or deceit, is long gone. Did you really think I might want to take Ciri away from you?” Lambert snorted and turned his face away. Eskel and Vesemir looked at Geralt, and Geralt said nothing. He continued to gaze off to the side, playing incessantly with his silver witcher medallion, depicting the head of a snarling wolf. Triss knew the medallion reacted to magic. On such a night as Midinváerne, when the air itself was vibrating with magic, the witchers’ medallions must be practically humming. It must be both irritating and bothersome.

“No, child,” Vesemir finally said. “We know you would not do such a thing. But we also know that you do, ultimately, have to tell the Chapter about her. We’ve known for a long time that every wizard, male or female, is burdened with this duty. You don’t take talented children from their parents and guardians any more. You observe such children so that later – at the right moment – you can fascinate them in magic, influence them—” “Have no fear,” she interrupted coldly. “I will not tell anyone about Ciri. Not even the Chapter. Why are you looking at me like that?” “We’re amazed by the ease with which you pledge to keep this secret,” said Eskel calmly. “Forgive me, Triss, I do not mean to offend you, but what has happened to your legendary loyalty to the Council and Chapter?” “A lot has happened. The war changed many things, and the battle for Sodden Hill changed even more. I won’t bore you with the politics, especially as certain issues and affairs are bound by secrets I am not allowed to divulge. But as for loyalty… I am loyal. And believe me, in this matter I can be loyal to both you and to the Chapter.” “Such double loyalty” – Geralt looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening – “is devilishly difficult to manage. Rarely does it succeed, Triss.” The enchantress turned her gaze on Ciri. The girl was sitting on a bearskin with Coën, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a handslapping game. The game was growing monotonous as both were incredibly quick – neither could manage to slap the other’s hand in any way. This, however, clearly neither mattered to them nor spoiled their game.

“Geralt,” she said, “when you found Ciri, on the Yaruga, you took her with you. You brought her to Kaer Morhen, hid her from the world and do not let even those closest to the child know she is alive. You did this because something – about which I know nothing – convinced you that destiny exists, holds sway over us, and guides us in everything we do. I think the same, and have always done so. If destiny wants Ciri to become a magician, she will become one. Neither the Chapter nor the Council have to know about her, they don’t have to observe or encourage her. So in keeping your secret I won’t betray the Chapter in any way. But as you know, there is something of a hitch here.” “Were it only one,” sighed Vesemir. “Go on, child.”

“The girl has magical abilities, and that can’t be neglected. It’s too dangerous.” “In what way?”

“Uncontrolled powers are an ominous thing. For both the Source and those in their vicinity. The Source can threaten those around them in many ways. But they threaten themselves in only one. Mental illness. Usually catatonia.” “Devil take it,” said Lambert after a long silence. “I am listening to you half-convinced that someone here has already lost their marbles and will, any moment now, present a threat to the rest of us. Destiny, sources, spells, hocus-pocus… Aren’t you exaggerating, Merigold? Is this the first child to be brought to the Keep? Geralt didn’t find destiny; he found another homeless, orphaned child. We’ll teach the girl the sword and let her out into the world like the others. True, I admit we’ve never trained a girl in Kaer Morhen before. We’ve had some problems with Ciri, made mistakes, and it’s a good thing you’ve pointed them out to us. But don’t let us exaggerate. She is not so remarkable as to make us fall on our knees and raise our eyes to the heavens. Is there a lack of female warriors roaming the world? I assure you, Merigold, Ciri will leave here skilful and healthy, strong and able to face life. And, I warrant, without catatonia or any other epilepsy. Unless you delude her into believing she has some such disease.” “Vesemir,” Triss turned in her chair, “tell him to keep quiet, he’s getting in the way.” “You think you know it all,” said Lambert calmly, “but you don’t. Not yet. Look.” He stretched his hand towards the hearth, arranging his fingers together in a strange way. The chimney roared and howled, the flames burst out violently, the glowing embers grew brighter and rained sparks. Geralt, Vesemir and Eskel glanced at Ciri anxiously but the girl paid no attention to the spectacular fireworks.

Triss folded her arms and looked at Lambert defiantly.

“The Sign of Aard,” she stated calmly. “Did you think to impress me? With the use of the same sign, strengthened through concentration, will-power and a spell, I can blow the logs from the chimney in a moment and blast them so high you will think they are stars.” “You can,” he agreed. “But Ciri can’t. She can’t form the Sign of Aard. Or any other sign. She has tried hundreds of times, to no effect. And you know our Signs require minimal power. Ciri does not even have that. She is an absolutely normal child. She has not the least magical power – she has, in fact, a comprehensive lack of ability. And here you are telling us she’s a Source, trying to threaten us—” “A Source,” she explained coldly, “has no control over their skills, no command over them. They are a medium, something like a transmitter. Unknowingly they get in touch with energy, unknowingly they convert it. And when they try to control it, when they strain trying to form the Signs perhaps, nothing comes of it. And nothing will come of it, not just after hundreds of attempts but after thousands. It is one characteristic of a Source. Then, one day, a moment comes when the Source does not exert itself, does not strain, is daydreaming or thinking about cabbage and sausages, playing dice, enjoying themselves in bed with a partner, picking their nose… and suddenly something happens. A house might go up in flames. Or sometimes, half a town goes up.” “You’re exaggerating, Merigold.”

“Lambert.” Geralt released his medallion and rested his hands on the table. “First, stop calling Triss ‘Merigold’. She has asked you a number of times not to. Second, Triss is not exaggerating. I saw Ciri’s mother, Princess Pavetta, in action with my own eyes. I tell you, it was really something. I don’t know if she was a Source or not, but no one suspected she had any power at all until, save by a hair’s breadth, she almost reduced the royal castle of Cintra to ashes.” “We should assume, therefore,” said Eskel, lighting the candles in yet another candle-stick, “that Ciri could, indeed, be genetically burdened.” “Not only could,” said Vesemir, “she is so burdened. On the one hand Lambert is right. Ciri is not capable of forming Signs. On the other… We have all seen…” He fell silent and looked at Ciri who, with a joyful squeal, acknowledged that she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coën’s face and was sure he had allowed her to win.

“Precisely,” she sneered. “You have all seen. What have you seen? Under what circumstances did you see it? Don’t you think, boys, that the time has come for more truthful confessions? Hell, I repeat, I will keep your secret. You have my word.” Lambert glanced at Geralt; Geralt nodded in assent. The younger witcher stood and took a large rectangular crystal carafe and a smaller phial from a high shelf. He poured the contents of the phial into the carafe, shook it several times and poured the transparent liquid into the chalices on the table.

“Have a drink with us, Triss.”

“Is the truth so terrible,” she mocked, “that we can’t talk about it soberly? Do I have to get drunk in order to hear it?” “Don’t be such a know-all. Take a sip. You will find it easier to understand.” “What is it?”

“White Seagull.”

“What?”

“A mild remedy,” Eskel smiled, “for pleasant dreams.”

“Damn it! A witcher hallucinogenic? That’s why your eyes shine like that in the evenings!” “White Seagull is very gentle. It’s Black Seagull that is hallucinogenic.” “If there’s magic in this liquid I’m not allowed to take it!” “Exclusively natural ingredients,” Geralt reassured her but he looked, she noticed, disconcerted. He was clearly afraid she would question them about the elixir’s ingredients. “And diluted with a great deal of water. We would not offer you anything that could harm you.” The sparkling liquid, with its strange taste, struck her throat with its chill and then dispersed warmth throughout her body. The magician ran her tongue over her gums and palate. She was unable to recognise any of the ingredients.

“You gave Ciri some of this… Seagull to drink,” she surmised. “And then—” “It was an accident,” Geralt interrupted quickly. “That first evening, just after we arrived… she was thirsty, and the Seagull stood on the table. Before we had time to react, she had drunk it all in one go. And fallen into a trance.” “We had such a fright,” Vesemir admitted, and sighed. “Oh, that we did, child. More than we could take.” “She started speaking with another voice,” the magician stated calmly, looking at the witchers’ eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “She started talking about events and matters of which she could have no knowledge. She started… to prophesy. Right? What did she say?” “Rubbish,” said Lambert dryly. “Senseless drivel.”

“Then I have no doubt” – she looked straight at him – “that you understood each other perfectly well. Drivel is your speciality – and I am further convinced of it every time you open your mouth. Do me a great favour and don’t open it for a while, all right?” “This once,” said Eskel gravely, rubbing the scar across his cheek, “Lambert is right, Triss. After drinking Seagull Ciri really was incomprehensible. That first time it was gibberish. Only after—” He broke off. Triss shook her head.

“It was only the second time that she started talking sense,” she guessed. “So there was a second time, too. Also after she drank a drug because of your carelessness?” “Triss.” Geralt raised his head. “This is not the time for your childish spitefulness. It doesn’t amuse us. It worries and upsets us. Yes, there was a second time, too, and a third. Ciri fell, quite by accident, during an exercise. She lost consciousness. When she regained it, she had fallen into another trance. And once again she spoke nonsense. Again it was not her voice. And again it was incomprehensible. But I have heard similar voices before, heard a similar way of speaking. It’s how those poor, sick, demented women known as oracles speak. You see what I’m thinking?” “Clearly. That was the second time, get to the third.”

Geralt wiped his brow, suddenly beaded with sweat, on his forearm. “Ciri often wakes up at night,” he continued. “Shouting. She has been through a lot. She does not want to talk about it but it is clear that she saw things no child should see in Cintra and Angren. I even fear that… that someone harmed her. It comes back to her in dreams. Usually she is easy to reassure and she falls asleep without any problem… But once, after waking… she was in a trance again. She again spoke with someone else’s, unpleasant, menacing voice. She spoke clearly and made sense. She prophesied. Foresaw the future. And what she foretold…” “What? What, Geralt?”

“Death,” Vesemir said gently. “Death, child.”

Triss glanced at Ciri, who was shrilly accusing Coën of cheating. Coën put his arms around her and burst out laughing. The magician suddenly realised that she had never, up until now, heard any of the witchers laugh.

“For whom?” she asked briefly, still gazing at Coën.

“Him,” said Vesemir.

“And me,” Geralt added. And smiled.

“When she woke up—”

“She remembered nothing. And we didn’t ask her any questions.” “Quite so. As to the prophecy… Was it specific? Detailed?” “No.” Geralt looked her straight in the eyes. “Confused. Don’t ask about it, Triss. We are not worried by the contents of Ciri’s prophecies and ravings but about what happens to her. We’re not afraid for ourselves but—” “Careful,” warned Vesemir. “Don’t talk about it in front of her.” Coën approached the table carrying the girl piggy-back.

“Wish everybody goodnight, Ciri,” he said. “Say goodnight to those night owls. We’re going to sleep. It’s nearly midnight. In a minute it’ll be the end of Midinváerne. As of tomorrow, every day brings spring closer!” “I’m thirsty.” Ciri slipped off his back and reached for Eskel’s chalice. Eskel deftly moved the vessel beyond her reach and grabbed a jug of water. Triss stood quickly.

“Here you are.” She gave her half-full chalice to the girl while meaningfully squeezing Geralt’s arm and looking Vesemir in the eye. “Drink.” “Triss,” whispered Eskel, watching Ciri drink greedily, “what are you doing? It’s—” “Not a word, please.”

They did not have to wait long for it to take effect. Ciri suddenly grew rigid, cried out, and smiled a broad, happy smile. She squeezed her eyelids shut and stretched out her arms. She laughed, spun a pirouette and danced on tiptoes. Lambert moved the stool away in a flash, leaving Coën standing between the dancing girl and the hearth.

Triss jumped up and tore an amulet from her pouch – a sapphire set in silver on a thin chain. She squeezed it tightly in her hand.

“Child…” groaned Vesemir. “What are you doing?”

“I know what I’m doing,” she said sharply. “Ciri has fallen into a trance and I am going to contact her psychically. I am going to enter her. I told you, she is something like a magical transmitter – I’ve got to know what she is transmitting, how, and from where she is drawing the aura, how she is transforming it. It’s Midinváerne, a favourable night for such an undertaking…” “I don’t like it.” Geralt frowned. “I don’t like it at all.” “Should either of us suffer an epileptic fit,” the magician said ignoring his words, “you know what to do. A stick between our teeth, hold us down, wait for it to pass. Chin up, boys. I’ve done this before.” Ciri ceased dancing, sank to her knees, extended her arms and rested her head on her lap. Triss pressed the now warm amulet to her temple and murmured the formula of a spell. She closed her eyes, concentrated her willpower and gave out a burst of magic.

The sea roared, waves thundered against the rocky shore and exploded in high geysers amidst the boulders. She flapped her wings, chasing the salty wind. Indescribably happy, she dived, caught up with a flock of her companions, brushed the crests of the waves with her claws, soared into the sky again, shedding water droplets, and glided, tossed by the gale whistling through her pinfeathers. Force of suggestion, she thought soberly. It is only force of suggestion. Seagull!

Triiiss! Triiss!

Ciri? Where are you?

Triiiss!

The cry of the seagulls ceased. The magician still felt the wet splash of the breakers but the sea was no longer below her. Or it was – but it was a sea of grass, an endless plateau stretching as far as the horizon. Triss, with horror, realised she was looking at the view from the top of Sodden Hill. But it was not the Hill. It could not be the Hill.

The sky suddenly grew dark, shadows swirled around her. She saw a long column of indistinct figures slowly climbing down the mountainside. She heard murmurs superimposed over each other, mingling into an uncanny, incomprehensible chorus.

Ciri was standing nearby with her back turned to her. The wind was blowing her ashen hair about.

The indistinct, hazy figures continued past in a long, unending column. Passing her, they turned their heads. Triss suppressed a cry, watching the listless, peaceful faces and their dead, unseeing eyes. She did not know all of the faces, did not recognise them. But some of them she did know.

Coral. Vanielle. Yoël. Pox-marked Axel…

“Why have you brought me here?” she whispered. “Why?”

Ciri turned. She raised her arm and the magician saw a trickle of blood run down her life-line, across her palm and onto her wrist.

“It is the rose,” the girl said calmly. “The rose of Shaerrawedd. I pricked myself. It is nothing. It is only blood. The blood of elves…” The sky grew even darker, then, a moment later, flared with the sharp, blinding glare of lightning. Everything froze in the silence and stillness. Triss took a step, wanting to make sure she could. She stopped next to Ciri and saw that both of them stood on the edge of a bottomless chasm where reddish smoke, glowing as though it was lit from behind, was swirling. The flash of another soundless bolt of lightning suddenly revealed a long, marble staircase leading into the depths of the abyss.

“It has to be this way,” Ciri said in a shaky voice. “There is no other. Only this. Down the stairs. It has to be this way because… Va’esse deireádh aep eigean…” “Speak,” whispered the magician. “Speak, child.”

“The Child of Elder Blood… Feainnewedd… Luned aep Hen Ichaer… Deithwen… The White Flame… No, no… No!” “Ciri!”

“The black knight… with feathers in his helmet… What did he do to me? What happened? I was frightened… I’m still frightened. It’s not ended, it will never end. The lion cub must die… Reasons of state… No… No…” “Ciri!”

“No!” The girl turned rigid and squeezed her eyelids shut. “No, no, I don’t want to! Don’t touch me!” Ciri’s face suddenly changed, hardened; her voice became metallic, cold and hostile, resounding with threatening, cruel mockery.

“You have come all this way with her, Triss Merigold? All the way here? You have come too far, Fourteenth One. I warned you.” “Who are you?” Triss shuddered but she kept her voice under control.

“You will know when the time comes.”

“I will know now!”

The magician raised her arms, extended them abruptly, putting all her strength into a Spell of Identification. The magic curtain burst but behind it was a second… A third… A fourth… Triss sank to her knees with a groan. But reality continued to burst, more doors opened, a long, endless row leading to nowhere. To emptiness.

“You are wrong, Fourteenth One,” the metallic, inhuman voice sneered. “You’ve mistaken the stars reflected on the surface of the lake at night for the heavens.” “Do not touch— Do not touch that child!”

“She is not a child.”

Ciri’s lips moved but Triss saw that the girl’s eyes were dead, glazed and vacant.

“She is not a child,” the voice repeated. “She is the Flame, the White Flame which will set light to the world. She is the Elder Blood, Hen Ichaer. The blood of elves. The seed which will not sprout but burst into flame. The blood which will be defiled… When Tedd Deireádh arrives, the Time of End. Va’esse deireádh aep eigean!” “Are you foretelling death?” shouted Triss. “Is that all you can do, foretell death? For everyone? Them, her… Me?” “You? You are already dead, Fourteenth One. Everything in you has already died.” “By the power of the spheres,” moaned the magician, activating what little remained of her strength and drawing her hand through the air, “I throw a spell on you by water, fire, earth and air. I conjure you in thought, in dream and in death, by all that was, by what is and by what will be. I cast my spell on you. Who are you? Speak!” Ciri turned her head away. The vision of the staircase leading down into the depths of the abyss disappeared, dissolved, and in its place appeared a grey, leaden sea, foaming, crests of waves breaking. And the seagull’s cries burst through the silence once more.

“Fly,” said the voice, through the girl’s lips. “It is time. Go back to where you came from, Fourteenth of the Hill. Fly on the wings of a gull and listen to the cry of other seagulls. Listen carefully!” “I conjure you—”

“You cannot. Fly, seagull!”

And suddenly the wet salty air was there again, roaring with the gale, and there was the flight, a flight with no beginning and no end. Seagulls cried wildly, cried and commanded.

Triss?

Ciri?

Forget about him! Don’t torture him! Forget! Forget, Triss!

Forget!

Triss! Triss! Trisss!

“Triss!”

She opened her eyes, tossed her head on the pillow and moved her numb hands.

“Geralt?”

“I’m here. How are you feeling?”

She cast her eyes around. She was in her chamber, lying on the bed. On the best bed in the whole of Kaer Morhen.

“What is happening to Ciri?”

“She is asleep.”

“How long—”

“Too long,” he interrupted. He covered her with the duvet and put his arms around her. As he leaned over the wolf’s head medallion swayed just above her face. “What you did was not the best of ideas, Triss.” “Everything is all right.” She trembled in his embrace. That’s not true, she thought. Nothing’s all right. She turned her face so that the medallion didn’t touch her. There were many theories about the properties of witcher amulets and none advised magicians to touch them during the Equinox.

“Did… Did we say anything during the trance?”

“You, nothing. You were unconscious throughout. Ciri… just before she woke up… said: ‘Va’esse deireádh aep eigean’.” “She knows the Elder Speech?”

“Not enough to say a whole sentence.”

“A sentence which means: ‘Something is ending’.” The magician wiped her face with her hand. “Geralt, this is a serious matter. The girl is an exceptionally powerful medium. I don’t know what or who she is contacting, but I think there are no limits to her connection. Something wants to take possession of her. Something which is too powerful for me. I am afraid for her. Another trance could end in mental illness. I have no control over it, don’t know how to, can’t… If it proved necessary, I would not be able to block or suppress her powers; I would not even be capable, if there were no other option, of permanently extinguishing them. You have to get help from another magician. A more gifted one. More experienced. You know who I’m talking about.” “I do.” He turned his head away, clenched his lips.

“Don’t resist. Don’t defend yourself. I can guess why you turned to me rather than her. Overcome your pride, crush your rancour and obstinacy. There is no point to it, you’ll torture yourself to death. And you are risking Ciri’s health and life in the process. Another trance is liable to be more dangerous to her than the Trial of Grasses. Ask Yennefer for help, Geralt.” “And you, Triss?”

“What about me?” She swallowed with difficulty. “I’m not important. I let you down. I let you down… in everything. I was… I was your mistake. Nothing more.” “Mistakes,” he said with effort, “are also important to me. I don’t cross them out of my life, or memory. And I never blame others for them. You are important to me, Triss, and always will be. You never let me down. Never. Believe me.” She remained silent a long while.

“I will stay until spring,” she said finally, struggling against her shaking voice. “I will stay with Ciri… I will watch over her. Day and night. I will be with her day and night. And when spring is here… when spring is here we will take her to Melitele’s Temple in Ellander. The thing that wants to possess her might not be able to reach her in the temple. And then you will ask Yennefer for help.” “All right, Triss. Thank you.”

“Geralt?”

“Yes.”

“Ciri said something else, didn’t she? Something only you heard. Tell me what it was.” “No,” he protested and his voice quivered. “No, Triss.”

“Please.”

“She wasn’t speaking to me.”

“I know. She was speaking to me. Tell me, please.”

“After coming to… When I picked her up… She whispered: ‘Forget about him. Don’t torture him.’” “I won’t,” she said quietly. “But I can’t forget. Forgive me.” “I am the one who ought to be asking for forgiveness. And not only asking you.” “You love her that much,” she stated, not asking.

“That much,” he admitted in a whisper after a long moment of silence.

“Geralt.”

“Yes, Triss?”

“Stay with me tonight.”

“Triss…”

“Only stay.”

“All right.”

Not long after Midinváerne the snow stopped falling. The frost came.

Triss stayed with Ciri day and night. She watched over her. She surrounded her with care, visible and invisible.

The girl woke up shouting almost every night. She was delirious, holding her cheek and crying with pain. The magician calmed her with spells and elixirs, put her to sleep, cuddling and rocking her in her arms. And then she herself would be unable to sleep for a long time, thinking about what Ciri had said in her sleep and after she came to. And she felt a mounting fear. Va’esse deireádh aep eigean… Something is ending… That is how it was for ten days and nights. And finally it passed. It ended, disappeared without a trace. Ciri calmed, she slept peacefully with no nightmares, and no dreams.

But Triss kept a constant watch. She did not leave the girl for a moment. She surrounded her with care. Visible and invisible.

“Faster, Ciri! Lunge, attack, dodge! Half-pirouette, thrust, dodge! Balance! Balance with your left arm or you’ll fall from the comb! And you’ll hurt your… womanly attributes!” “What?”

“Nothing. Aren’t you tired? We’ll take a break, if you like.” “No, Lambert! I can go on. I’m not that weak, you know. Shall I try jumping over every other post?” “Don’t you dare! You might fall and then Merigold will tear my— my head off.” “I won’t fall!”

“I’ve told you once and I’m not going to say it again. Don’t show off! Steady on your legs! And breathe, Ciri, breathe! You’re panting like a dying mammoth!” “That’s not true!”

“Don’t squeal. Practise! Attack, dodge! Parry! Half-pirouette! Parry, full pirouette! Steadier on the posts, damn it! Don’t wobble! Lunge, thrust! Faster! Half-pirouette! Jump and cut! That’s it! Very good!” “Really? Was that really very good, Lambert?”

“Who said so?”

“You did! A moment ago!”

“Slip of the tongue. Attack! Half-pirouette! Dodge! And again! Ciri, where was the parry? How many times do I have to tell you? After you dodge you always parry, deliver a blow with the blade to protect your head and shoulders! Always!” “Even when I’m only fighting one opponent?”

“You never know what you’re fighting. You never know what’s happening behind you. You always have to cover yourself. Foot and sword work! It’s got to be a reflex. Reflex, understand? You mustn’t forget that. You forget it in a real fight and you’re finished. Again! At last! That’s it! See how such a parry lands? You can take any strike from it. You can cut backwards from it, if you have to. Right, show me a pirouette and a thrust backwards.” “Haaa!”

“Very good. You see the point now? Has it got through to you?” “I’m not stupid!”

“You’re a girl. Girls don’t have brains.”

“Lambert! If Triss heard that!”

“If ifs and ands were pots and pans. All right, that’s enough. Come down. We’ll take a break.” “I’m not tired!”

“But I am. I said, a break. Come down from the comb.”

“Turning a somersault?”

“What do you think? Like a hen off its roost? Go on, jump. Don’t be afraid, I’m here for you.” “Haaaa!”

“Nice. Very good – for a girl. You can take off the blindfold now.” “Triss, maybe that’s enough for today? What do you think? Maybe we could take the sleigh and ride down the hill? The sun’s shining, the snow’s sparkling so much it hurts the eyes! The weather’s beautiful!” “Don’t lean out or you’ll fall from the window.”

“Let’s go sleighing, Triss!”

“Suggest that again in Elder Speech and we’ll end the lesson there. Move away from the window, come back to the table… Ciri, how many times do I have to ask you? Stop waving that sword about and put it away.” “It’s my new sword! It’s real, a witcher’s sword! Made of steel which fell from heaven! Really! Geralt said so and he never lies, you know that!” “Oh, yes. I know that.”

“I’ve got to get used to this sword. Uncle Vesemir had it adjusted just right for my weight, height and arm-length. I’ve got to get my hand and wrist accustomed to it!” “Accustom yourself to your heart’s content, but outside. Not here! Well, I’m listening. You wanted to suggest we get the sleigh out. In Elder Speech. So – suggest it.” “Hmmm… What’s ‘sleigh’”

“Sledd as a noun. Aesledde as a verb.”

“Aha… Vaien aesledde, ell’ea?”

“Don’t end a question that way, it’s impolite. You form questions using intonation.” “But the children from the Islands—”

“You’re not learning the local Skellige jargon but classical Elder Speech.” “And why am I learning the Speech, tell me?”

“So that you know it. It’s fitting to learn things you don’t know. Anyone who doesn’t know other languages is handicapped.” “But people only speak the common tongue anyway!”

“True. But some speak more than just it. I warrant, Ciri, that it is better to count yourself amongst those few than amongst everyone. So, I’m listening. A full sentence: ‘The weather today is beautiful, so let’s get the sleigh.’” “Elaine… Hmmm… Elaine tedd a’taeghane, a va’en aesledde?” “Very good.”

“Ha! So let’s get the sleigh.”

“We will. But let me finish applying my make-up.”

“And who are you putting make-up on for, exactly?”

“Myself. A woman accentuates her beauty for her own self-esteem.” “Hmmm… Do you know what? I feel pretty poorly too. Don’t laugh, Triss!” “Come here. Sit on my knee. Put the sword away, I’ve already asked you! Thank you. Now take that large brush and powder your face. Not so much, girl, not so much! Look in the mirror. See how pretty you are?” “I can’t see any difference. I’ll do my eyes, all right? What are you laughing at? You always paint your eyes. I want to too.” “Fine. Here you are, put some shadow on your eyelids with this. Ciri, don’t close both your eyes or you won’t see anything – you’re smudging your whole face. Take a tiny bit and only skim over the eyelids. Skim, I said! Let me, I’ll just spread it a little. Close your eyes. Now open them.” “Oooo!”

“See the difference? A tiny bit of shadow won’t do any harm, even to such beautiful eyes as yours. The elves knew what they were doing when they invented eye shadow.” “Elves?”

“You didn’t know? make-up is an elvish invention. We’ve learned a lot of useful things from the Elder People. And we’ve given bloody little back in return. Now take the pencil and draw a thin line across your upper lids, just above the lashes. Ciri, what are you doing?” “Don’t laugh! My eyelid’s trembling! That’s why!”

“Part your lips a little and it’ll stop trembling. See?”

“Ooooh!”

“Come on, now we’ll go and stun the witchers with our beauty. It’s hard to find a prettier sight. And then we’ll take the sleigh and smudge our make-up in the deep snowdrifts.” “And we’ll make ourselves up again!”

“No. We’ll tell Lambert to warm the bathroom and we’ll take a bath.” “Again? Lambert says we’re using up too much fuel with our baths.” “Lambert cáen me a’báeth aep arse.”

“What? I didn’t understand…”

“With time you’ll master the idioms, too. We’ve still got a lot of time for studying before spring. But now… Va’en aesledde, me elaine luned!” “Here, on this engraving… No, damn it, not on that one… On this one. This is, as you already know, a ghoul. Tell us, Ciri, what you’ve learned about ghouls… Hey, look at me! What the devil have you got on your eyelids?” “Greater self-esteem!”

“What? Never mind, I’m listening.”

“Hmm… The ghoul, Uncle Vesemir, is a corpse-devouring monster. It can be seen in cemeteries, in the vicinity of barrows, anywhere the dead are buried. At nec— necropolia. On battlegrounds, on fields of battle…” “So it’s only a danger to the dead, is that right?”

“No, not only. A ghoul may also attack the living if it’s hungry or falls into a fury. If, for example, there’s a battle… A lot of people killed…” “What’s the matter, Ciri?”

“Nothing…”

“Ciri, listen. Forget about that. That will never return.” “I saw… In Sodden and in Transriver… Entire fields… They were lying there, being eaten by wolves and wild dogs. Birds were picking at them… I guess there were ghouls there too…” “That’s why you’re learning about ghouls now, Ciri. When you know about something it stops being a nightmare. When you know how to fight something, it stops being so threatening. So how do you fight a ghoul, Ciri?” “With a silver sword. The ghoul is sensitive to silver.”

“And to what else?”

“Bright light. And fire.”

“So you can fight it with light and fire?”

“You can, but it’s dangerous. A witcher doesn’t use light or fire because it makes it harder to see. Every light creates a shadow and shadows make it harder to get your bearings. One must always fight in darkness, by moon or starlight.” “Quite right. You’ve remembered it well, clever girl. And now look here, at this engraving.” “Eeeueeeuuueee—”

“Oh well, true enough, it is not a beautiful cu— creature. It’s a graveir. A graveir is a type of ghoul. It looks very much like a ghoul but is considerably larger. He can also be told apart, as you can see, by these three bony combs on his skull. The rest is the same as any other corpse-eater. Take note of the short, blunt claws, adapted for digging up graves, and churning the earth. Strong teeth for shattering bones and a long, narrow tongue used to lick the decaying marrow from them. Such stinking marrow is a delicacy for the graveir… What’s the matter?” “Nnnnothing.”

“You’re completely pale. And green. You don’t eat enough. Did you eat breakfast?” “Yeeees. I diiiidddddd.”

“What was I… Aha. I almost forgot. Remember, because this is important. Graveirs, like ghouls and other monsters in this category, do not have their own ecological niche. They are relicts from the age of the interpenetration of spheres. Killing them does not upset the order and interconnections of nature which prevail in our present sphere. In this sphere these monsters are foreign and there is no place for them. Do you understand, Ciri?” “I do, Uncle Vesemir. Geralt explained it to me. I know all that. An ecological niche is—” “All right, that’s fine. I know what it is. If Geralt has explained it to you, you don’t have to recite it to me. Let us return to the graveir. Graveirs appear quite rarely, fortunately, because they’re bloody dangerous sons-of-bitches. The smallest wound inflicted by a graveir will infect you with corpse venom. Which elixir is used to treat corpse venom poisoning, Ciri?” “ ‘Golden Oriole’.”

“Correct. But it is better to avoid infection to begin with. That is why, when fighting a graveir, you must never get close to the bastard. You always fight from a distance and strike from a leap.” “Hmm… And where’s it best to strike one?”

“We’re just getting to that. Look…”

“Once more, Ciri. We’ll go through it slowly so that you can master each move. Now, I’m attacking you with tierce, taking the position as if to thrust… Why are you retreating?” “Because I know it’s a feint! You can move into a wide sinistra or strike with upper quarte. And I’ll retreat and parry with a counterfeint!” “Is that so? And if I do this?”

“Auuu! It was supposed to be slow! What did I do wrong, Coën?” “Nothing. I’m just taller and stronger than you are.”

“That’s not fair!”

“There’s no such thing as a fair fight. You have to make use of every advantage and every opportunity that you get. By retreating you gave me the opportunity to put more force into the strike. Instead of retreating you should have executed a half-pirouette to the left and tried to cut at me from below, with quarte dextra, under the chin, in the cheek or throat.” “As if you’d let me! You’ll do a reverse pirouette and get my neck from the left before I can parry! How am I meant to know what you’re doing?” “You have to know. And you do know.”

“Oh, sure!”

“Ciri, what we’re doing is fighting. I’m your opponent. I want to and have to defeat you because my life is at stake. I’m taller and stronger than you so I’m going to watch for opportunities to strike in order to avoid or break your parry – as you’ve just seen. What do I need a pirouette for? I’m already in sinistra, see? What could be simpler than to strike with a seconde, under the arm, on the inside? If I slash your artery, you’ll be dead in a couple of minutes. Defend yourself!” “Haaaa!”

“Very good. A beautiful, quick parry. See how exercising your wrist has come in useful? And now pay attention – a lot of fencers make the mistake of executing a standing parry and freeze for a second, and that’s just when you can catch them out, strike – like so!” “Haa!”

“Beautiful! Now jump away, jump away immediately, pirouette! I could have a dagger in my left hand! Good! Very good! And now, Ciri? What am I going to do now?” “How am I to know?”

“Watch my feet! How is my body weight distributed? What can I do from this position?” “Anything!”

“So spin, spin, force me to open up! Defend yourself! Good! And again! Good! And again!” “Owwww!”

“Not so good.”

“Uff… What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just faster. Take your guards off. We’ll sit for a moment, take a break. You must be tired, you’ve been running the Trail all morning.” “I’m not tired. I’m hungry.”

“Bloody hell, so am I. And today’s Lambert’s turn and he can’t cook anything other than noodles… If he could only cook those properly…” “Coën?”

“Aha?”

“I’m still not fast enough—”

“You’re very fast.”

“Will I ever be as fast as you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Hmm… And are you—? Who’s the best fencer in the world?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“You’ve never known one?”

“I’ve known many who believed themselves to be the best.” “Oh! What were they? What were their names? What could they do?” “Hold on, hold on, girl. I haven’t got an answer to those questions. Is it all that important?” “Of course it’s important! I’d like to know who these fencers are. And where they are.” “Where they are? I know that.”

“Ah! So where?”

“In cemeteries.”

“Pay attention, Ciri. We’re going to attach a third pendulum now – you can manage two already. You use the same steps as for two only there’s one more dodge. Ready?” “Yes.”

“Focus yourself. Relax. Breathe in, breathe out. Attack!” “Ouch! Owwww… Damn it!”

“Don’t swear. Did it hit you hard?”

“No, it only brushed me… What did I do wrong?”

“You ran in at too even a pace, you sped the second half-pirouette up a bit too much, and your feint was too wide. And as a result you were carried straight under the pendulum.” “But Geralt, there’s no room for a dodge and turn there! They’re too close to each other!” “There’s plenty of room, I assure you. But the gaps are worked out to force you to make arrhythmic moves. This is a fight, Ciri, not ballet. You can’t move rhythmically in a fight. You have to distract the opponent with your moves, confuse his reactions. Ready for another try?” “Ready. Start those damn logs swinging.”

“Don’t swear. Relax. Attack!”

“Ha! Ha! Well, how about that? How was that, Geralt? It didn’t even brush me!” “And you didn’t even brush the second sack with your sword. So I repeat, this is a fight. Not ballet, not acrobatics— What are you muttering now?” “Nothing.”

“Relax. Adjust the bandage on your wrist. Don’t grip the hilt so tightly, it distracts you and upsets your equilibrium. Breathe calmly. Ready?” “Yes.”

“Go!”

“Ouch! May you— Geralt, it’s impossible! There’s not enough room for a feint and a change of foot. And when I strike from both legs, without a feint…” “I saw what happens when you strike without a feint. Does it hurt?” “No. Not much…”

“Sit down next to me. Take a break.”

“I’m not tired. Geralt, I’m not going to be able to jump over that third pendulum even if I rest for ten years. I can’t be any faster—” “And you don’t have to be. You’re fast enough.”

“Tell me how to do it then. Half-pirouette, dodge and hit at the same time?” “It’s very simple; you just weren’t paying attention. I told you before you started – an additional dodge is necessary. Displacement. An additional half-pirouette is superfluous. The second time round, you did everything well and passed all the pendulums.” “But I didn’t hit the sack because… Geralt, without a half-pirouette I can’t strike because I lose speed, I don’t have the… the, what do you call it…” “Impetus. That’s true. So gain some impetus and energy. But not through a pirouette and change of foot because there’s not enough time for it. Hit the pendulum with your sword.” “The pendulum? I’ve got to hit the sacks!”

“This is a fight, Ciri. The sacks represent your opponent’s sensitive areas, you’ve got to hit them. The pendulums – which simulate your opponent’s weapon – you have to avoid, dodge past. When the pendulum hits you, you’re wounded. In a real fight, you might not get up again. The pendulum mustn’t touch you. But you can hit the pendulum… Why are you screwing your nose up?” “I’m… not going to be able to parry the pendulum with my sword. I’m too weak… I’ll always be too weak! Because I’m a girl!” “Come here, girl. Wipe your nose, and listen carefully. No strongman, mountain-toppling giant or muscle-man is going to be able to parry a blow aimed at him by a dracolizard’s tail, gigascorpion’s pincers or a griffin’s claws. And that’s precisely the sort of weapons the pendulum simulates. So don’t even try to parry. You’re not deflecting the pendulum, you’re deflecting yourself from it. You’re intercepting its energy, which you need in order to deal a blow. A light, but very swift deflection and instantaneous, equally swift blow from a reverse half-turn is enough. You’re picking impetus up by rebounding. Do you see?” “Mhm.”

“Speed, Ciri, not strength. Strength is necessary for a lumberjack axing trees in a forest. That’s why, admittedly, girls are rarely lumberjacks. Have you got that?” “Mhm. Start the pendulums swinging.”

“Take a rest first.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You know how to now? The same steps, feint—”

“I know.”

“Attack!”

“Haaa! Ha! Haaaaa! Got you! I got you, you griffin! Geraaaalt! Did you see that?” “Don’t yell. Control your breathing.”

“I did it! I really did it!! I managed it! Praise me, Geralt!” “Well done, Ciri. Well done, girl.”

In the middle of February, the snow disappeared, whisked away by a warm wind blowing from the south, from the pass.

Whatever was happening in the world, the witchers did not want to know.

In the evenings, consistently and determinedly, Triss guided the long conversations held in the dark hall, lit only by the bursts of flames in the great hearth, towards politics. The witchers’ reactions were always the same. Geralt, a hand on his forehead, did not say a word. Vesemir nodded, from time to time throwing in comments which amounted to little more than that “in his day” everything had been better, more logical, more honest and healthier. Eskel pretended to be polite, and neither smiled nor made eye contact, and even managed, very occasionally, to be interested in some issue or question of little importance. Coën yawned openly and looked at the ceiling, and Lambert did nothing to hide his disdain.

They did not want to know anything, they cared nothing for dilemmas which drove sleep from kings, wizards, rulers and leaders, or for the problems which made councils, circles and gatherings tremble and buzz. For them, nothing existed beyond the passes drowning in snow or beyond the Gwenllech river carrying ice-floats in its leaden current. For them, only Kaer Morhen existed, lost and lonely amongst the savage mountains.

That evening Triss was irritable and restless – perhaps it was the wind howling along the great castle’s walls. And that evening they were all oddly excited – the witchers, apart from Geralt, were unusually talkative. Quite obviously, they only spoke of one thing – spring. About their approaching departure for the Trail. About what the Trail would have in store for them – about vampires, wyverns, leshys, lycanthropes and basilisks.

This time it was Triss who began to yawn and stare at the ceiling. This time she was the one who remained silent – until Eskel turned to her with a question. A question which she had anticipated.

“And what is it really like in the south, on the Yaruga? Is it worth going there? We wouldn’t like to find ourselves in the middle of any trouble.” “What do you mean by trouble?”

“Well, you know…” he stammered, “you keep telling us about the possibility of a new war… About constant fighting on the borders, about rebellions in the lands invaded by Nilfgaard. You said they’re saying the Nilfgaardians might cross the Yaruga again—” “So what?” said Lambert. “They’ve been hitting, killing and striking against each other constantly for hundreds of years. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ve already decided – I’m going to the far South, to Sodden, Mahakam and Angren. It’s well known that monsters abound wherever armies have passed. The most money is always made in places like that.” “True,” Coën acknowledged. “The neighbourhood grows deserted, only women who can’t fend for themselves remain in the villages… scores of children with no home or care, roaming around… Easy prey attracts monsters.” “And the lord barons and village elders,” added Eskel, “have their heads full of the war and don’t have the time to defend their subjects. They have to hire us. It’s true. But from what Triss has been telling us all these evenings, it seems the conflict with Nilfgaard is more serious than that, not just some local little war. Is that right, Triss?” “Even if it were the case,” said the magician spitefully, “surely that suits you? A serious, bloody war will lead to more deserted villages, more widowed women, simply hordes of orphaned children—” “I can’t understand your sarcasm.” Geralt took his hand away from his forehead. “I really can’t, Triss.” “Nor I, my child.” Vesemir raised his head. “What do you mean? Are you thinking about the widows and children? Lambert and Coën speak frivolously, as youngsters do, but it is not the words that are important. After all, they—” “…they defend these children,” she interrupted crossly. “Yes, I know. From the werewolf who might kill two or three a year, while a Nilfgaardian foray can kill and burn an entire settlement in an hour. Yes, you defend orphans. While I fight that there should be as few of those orphans as possible. I’m fighting the cause, not the effect. That’s why I’m on Foltest of Temeria’s council and sit with Fercart and Keira Metz. We deliberate on how to stop war from breaking out and, should it come to it, how to defend ourselves. Because war is constantly hovering over us like a vulture. For you it’s an adventure. For me, it’s a game in which the stakes are survival. I’m involved in this game, and that’s why your indifference and frivolity hurt and insult me.” Geralt sat up and looked at her.

“We’re witchers, Triss. Can’t you understand that?”

“What’s there to understand?” The enchantress tossed her chestnut mane back. “Everything’s crystal-clear. You’ve chosen a certain attitude to the world around you. The fact that this world might at any moment fall to pieces has a place in this choice. In mine, it doesn’t. That’s where we differ.” “I’m not sure it’s only there we differ.”

“The world is falling to ruins,” she repeated. “We can watch it happen and do nothing. Or we can counteract it.” “How?” He smiled derisively. “With our emotions?”

She did not answer, turning her face to the fire roaring in the hearth.

“The world is falling to ruins,” repeated Coën, nodding his head in feigned thoughtfulness. “How many times I’ve heard that.” “Me, too,” Lambert grimaced. “And it’s not surprising – it’s a popular saying of late. It’s what kings say when it turns out that a modicum of brains is necessary to rule after all. It’s what merchants say when greed and stupidity have led them to bankruptcy. It’s what wizards say when they start to lose their influence on politics or income. And the person they’re speaking to should expect some sort of proposal straight away. So cut the introduction short, Triss, and present us with your proposition.” “Verbal squabbling has never amused me,” the enchantress declared, gauging him with cold eyes, “or displays of eloquence which mock whoever you’re talking to. I don’t intend to take part in anything like that. You know only too well what I mean. You want to hide your heads in the sand, that’s your business. But coming from you, Geralt, it’s a great surprise.” “Triss.” The white-haired witcher looked her straight in the eyes again. “What do you expect from me? To take an active part in the fight to save a world which is falling to pieces? Am I to enlist in the army and stop Nilfgaard? Should I, if it comes to another battle for Sodden, stand with you on the Hill, shoulder to shoulder, and fight for freedom?” “I’d be proud,” she said quietly, lowering her head. “I’d be proud and happy to fight at your side.” “I believe that. But I’m not gallant enough. Nor valiant enough. I’m not suited to be a soldier or a hero. And having an acute fear of pain, mutilation and death is not the only reason. You can’t stop a soldier from being frightened but you can give him motivation to help him overcome that fear. I have no such motivation. I can’t have. I’m a witcher: an artificially created mutant. I kill monsters for money. I defend children when their parents pay me to. If Nilfgaardian parents pay me, I’ll defend Nilfgaardian children. And even if the world lies in ruin – which does not seem likely to me – I’ll carry on killing monsters in the ruins of this world until some monster kills me. That is my fate, my reason, my life and my attitude to the world. And it is not what I chose. It was chosen for me.” “You’re embittered,” she stated, tugging nervously at a strand of hair. “Or pretending to be. You forget that I know you, so don’t play the unfeeling mutant, devoid of a heart, of scruples and of his own free will, in front of me. And the reasons for your bitterness, I can guess and understand. Ciri’s prophecy, correct?” “No, not correct,” he answered icily. “I see that you don’t know me at all. I’m afraid of death, just like everyone else, but I grew used to the idea of it a very long time ago – I’m not under any illusions. I’m not complaining about fate, Triss – this is plain, cold calculation. Statistics. No witcher has yet died of old age, lying in bed dictating his will. Not a single one. Ciri didn’t surprise or frighten me. I know I’m going to die in some cave which stinks of carcases, torn apart by a griffin, lamia or manticore. But I don’t want to die in a war, because they’re not my wars.” “I’m surprised at you,” she replied sharply. “I’m surprised that you’re saying this, surprised by your lack of motivation, as you learnedly chose to describe your supercilious distance and indifference. You were at Sodden, Angren and Transriver. You know what happened to Cintra, know what befell Queen Calanthe and many thousands of people there. You know the hell Ciri went through, know why she cries out at night. And I know, too, because I was also there. I’m afraid of pain and death too, even more so now than I was then – I have good reason. As for motivation, it seems to me that back then I had just as little as you. Why should I, a magician, care about the fates of Sodden, Brugge, Cintra or other kingdoms? The problems of having more or less competent rulers? The interests of merchants and barons? I was a magician. I, too, could have said it wasn’t my war, that I could mix elixirs for the Nilfgaardians on the ruins of the world. But I stood on that Hill next to Vilgefortz, next to Artaud Terranova, next to Fercart, next to Enid Findabair and Philippa Eilhart, next to your Yennefer. Next to those who no longer exist – Coral, Yoël, Vanielle… There was a moment when out of sheer terror I forgot all my spells except for one – and thanks to that spell I could have teleported myself from that horrific place back home, to my tiny little tower in Maribor. There was a moment, when I threw up from fear, when Yennefer and Coral held me up by the shoulders and hair—” “Stop. Please, stop.”

“No, Geralt. I won’t. After all, you want to know what happened there, on the Hill. So listen – there was a din and flames, there were flaming arrows and exploding balls of fire, there were screams and crashes, and I suddenly found myself on the ground on a pile of charred, smoking rags, and I realised that the pile of rags was Yoël and that thing next to her, that awful thing, that trunk with no arms and no legs which was screaming so horrifically was Coral. And I thought the blood in which I was lying was Coral’s blood. But it was my own. And then I saw what they had done to me, and I started to howl, howl like a beaten dog, like a battered child— Leave me alone! Don’t worry, I’m not going to cry. I’m not a little girl from a tiny tower in Maribor any more. Damn it, I’m Triss Merigold, the Fourteenth One Killed at Sodden. There are fourteen graves at the foot of the obelisk on the Hill, but only thirteen bodies. You’re amazed such a mistake could have been made? Most of the corpses were in hard-to-recognise pieces – no one identified them. The living were hard to account for, too. Of those who had known me well, Yennefer was the only one to survive, and Yennefer was blind. Others knew me fleetingly and always recognised me by my beautiful hair. And I, damn it, didn’t have it any more!” Geralt held her closer. She no longer tried to push him away.

“They used the highest magics on us,” she continued in a muted voice, “spells, elixirs, amulets and artefacts. Nothing was left wanting for the wounded heroes of the Hill. We were cured, patched up, our former appearances returned to us, our hair and sight restored. You can hardly see the marks. But I will never wear a plunging neckline again, Geralt. Never.” The witchers said nothing. Neither did Ciri, who had slipped into the hall without a sound and stopped at the threshold, hunching her shoulders and folding her arms.

“So,” the magician said after a while, “don’t talk to me about motivation. Before we stood on that Hill the Chapter simply told us: ‘That is what you have to do.’ Whose war was it? What were we defending there? The land? The borders? The people and their cottages? The interests of kings? The wizards’ influence and income? Order against Chaos? I don’t know! But we defended it because that’s what had to be done. And if the need arises, I’ll stand on the Hill again. Because if I don’t, it will make the sacrifices made the first time futile and unnecessary.” “I’ll stand beside you!” shouted Ciri shrilly. “Just wait and see, I’ll stand with you! Those Nilfgaardians are going to pay for my grandmother, pay for everything… I haven’t forgotten!” “Be quiet,” growled Lambert. “Don’t butt into grownups’ conversations—” “Oh sure!” The girl stamped her foot and in her eyes a green fire kindled. “Why do you think I’m learning to fight with a sword? I want to kill him, that black knight from Cintra with wings on his helmet, for what he did to me, for making me afraid! And I’m going to kill him! That’s why I’m learning it!” “And therefore you’ll stop learning,” said Geralt in a voice colder than the walls of Kaer Morhen. “Until you understand what a sword is, and what purpose it serves in a witcher’s hand, you will not pick one up. You are not learning in order to kill and be killed. You are not learning to kill out of fear and hatred, but in order to save lives. Your own and those of others.” The girl bit her lip, shaking from agitation and anger.

“Understood?”

Ciri raised her head abruptly. “No.”

“Then you’ll never understand. Get out.”

“Geralt, I—”

“Get out.”

Ciri spun on her heel and stood still for a moment, undecided, as if waiting – waiting for something that could not happen. Then she ran swiftly up the stairs. They heard the door slam.

“Too severe, Wolf,” said Vesemir. “Much too severe. And you shouldn’t have done it in Triss’s presence. The emotional ties—” “Don’t talk to me about emotions. I’ve had enough of all this talk about emotions!” “And why is that?” The magician smiled derisively and coldly. “Why, Geralt? Ciri is normal. She has normal feelings, she accepts emotions naturally, takes them for what they really are. You, obviously, don’t understand and are therefore surprised by them. It surprises and irritates you. The fact that someone can experience normal love, normal hatred, normal fear, pain and regret, normal joy and normal sadness. That it is coolness, distance and indifference which are considered abnormal. Oh yes, Geralt, it annoys you, it annoys you so much that you are starting to think about Kaer Morhen’s vaults, about the Laboratorium, the dusty demi-johns full of mutagenic poisons—” “Triss!” called Vesemir, gazing at Geralt’s face, suddenly grown pale. But the enchantress refused to be interrupted and spoke faster and faster, louder and louder.

“Who do you want to deceive, Geralt? Me? Her? Or maybe yourself? Maybe you don’t want to admit the truth, a truth everyone knows except you? Maybe you don’t want to accept the fact that human emotions and feelings weren’t killed in you by the elixirs and Grasses! You killed them! You killed them yourself! But don’t you dare kill them in the child!” “Silence!” he shouted, leaping from the chair. “Silence, Merigold!” He turned away and lowered his arms defencelessly. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Forgive me, Triss.” He made for the stairs quickly, but the enchantress was up in a flash and threw herself at him, embracing him.

“You are not leaving here alone,” she whispered. “I won’t let you be alone. Not right now.” They knew immediately where she had run to. Fine, wet snow had fallen that evening and had covered the forecourt with a thin, impeccably white carpet. In it they saw her footsteps.

Ciri was standing on the very summit of the ruined wall, as motionless as a statue. She was holding the sword above her right shoulder, the cross-guard at eye level. The fingers of her left hand were lightly touching the pommel.

On seeing them, the girl jumped, spun in a pirouette and landed softly in an identical but reverse mirror position.

“Ciri,” said the witcher, “come down, please.”

It seemed she hadn’t heard him. She did not move, not even a muscle. Triss, however, saw the reflection of the moon, thrown across her face by the blade, glisten silver over a stream of tears.

“No one’s going to take the sword away from me!” she shouted. “No one! Not even you!” “Come down,” repeated Geralt.

She tossed her head defiantly and the next second leaped once more. A loose brick slipped beneath her foot with a grating sound. Ciri staggered, trying to find her balance. And failed.

The witcher jumped.

Triss raised her hand, opening her mouth to utter a formula for levitation. She knew she couldn’t do it in time. She knew that Geralt would not make it. It was impossible.

Geralt did make it.

He was forced down to the ground, thrown on his knees and back. He fell. But he did not let go of Ciri.

The magician approached them slowly. She heard the girl whisper and sniff. Geralt too was whispering. She could not make out the words. But she understood their meaning.

A warm wind howled in the crevices of the wall. The witcher raised his head.

“Spring,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she acknowledged, swallowing. “There is still snow in the passes but in the valleys… In the valleys, it is already spring. Shall we leave, Geralt? You, Ciri and I?” “Yes. It is high time.”

Upriver we saw their towns, as delicate as if they were woven from the morning mist out of which they loomed. It seemed as if they would disappear a moment later, blown away on the wind which rippled the surface of the water. There were little palaces, white as nenuphar flowers; there were little towers looking as though they were plaited out of ivy; there were bridges as airy as weeping willows. And there were other things for which we could find no word or name. Yet we already had names for everything which our eyes beheld in this new, reborn world. Suddenly, in the far recesses of our memories, we found the words for dragons and griffins, mermaids and nymphs, sylphs and dryads once more. For the white unicorns which drank from the river at dusk, inclining their slender necks towards the water. We named everything. And everything seemed to be close to our hearts, familiar to us, ours.

Apart from them. They, although so resembling us, were alien. So very alien that, for a long time, we could find no word for their strangeness.

Hen Gedymdeith, Elves and Humans

A good elf is a dead elf.

Marshal Milan Raupenneck