فصل 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I’m going to tell you something,” said Iola the Second suddenly, resting the basket of grain on her hip. “There’s going to be a war. That’s what the duke’s greeve who came to fetch the cheeses said.” “A war?” Ciri shoved her hair back from her forehead. “With who? Nilfgaard?” “I didn’t hear,” the novice admitted. “But the greeve said our duke had received orders from King Foltest himself. He’s sending out a call to arms and all the roads are swarming with soldiers. Oh dear! What’s going to happen?” “If there’s going to be a war,” said Eurneid, “then it’ll most certainly be with Nilfgaard. Who else? Again! Oh gods, that’s terrible!” “Aren’t you exaggerating a bit with this war, Iola?” Ciri scattered some grains for the chickens and guinea-hens crowding around them in a busy, noisy whirl. “Maybe it’s only another raid on the Scoia’tael?” “Mother Nenneke asked the greeve the same thing,” declared Iola the Second. “And the greeve said that no, this time it wasn’t about the Squirrels. Castles and citadels have apparently been ordered to store supplies in case of a siege. But elves attack in forests, they don’t lay siege to castles! The greeve asked whether the Temple could give more cheese and other things. For the castle stores. And he demanded goose feathers. They need a lot of goose feathers, he said. For arrows. To shoot from bows, understand? Oh, gods! We’re going to have masses of work! You’ll see! We’ll be up to our ears in work!” “Not all of us,” said Eurneid scathingly. “Some aren’t going to get their little hands dirty. Some of us only work two days a week. They don’t have any time for work because they are, apparently, studying witchery. But in actual fact they’re probably only idling or skipping around the park thrashing weeds with a stick. You know who I’m talking about, Ciri, don’t you?” “Ciri will leave for the war no doubt,” giggled Iola the Second. “After all, she is apparently the daughter of a knight! And herself a great warrior with a terrible sword! At last she’ll be able to cut real heads off instead of nettles!” “No, she is a powerful wizard!” Eurneid wrinkled her little nose. “She’s going to change all our enemies into field mice. Ciri! Show us some amazing magic. Make yourself invisible or make the carrots ripen quicker. Or do something so that the chickens can feed themselves. Well, go on, don’t make us ask! Cast a spell!” “Magic isn’t for show,” said Ciri angrily. “Magic is not some street market trick.” “But of course, of course,” laughed the novice. “Not for show. Eh, Iola? It’s exactly as if I were hearing that hag Yennefer talk!” “Ciri is getting more and more like her,” appraised Iola, sniffing ostentatiously. “She even smells like her. Huh, no doubt some magical scent made of mandrake or ambergris. Do you use magical scents, Ciri?” “No! I use soap! Something you rarely use!”

“Oh ho.” Eurneid twisted her lips. “What sarcasm, what spite! And what airs!” “She never used to be like this,” Iola the Second puffed up. “She became like this when she started spending time with that witch. She sleeps with her, eats with her, doesn’t leave her side. She’s practically stopped attending lessons at the Temple and no longer has a moment to spare for us!” “And we have to do all the work for her! Both in the kitchen and in the garden! Look at her little hands, Iola! Like a princess!” “That’s the way it is!” squeaked Ciri. “Some have brains, so they get a book! Others are feather-brained, so they get a broom!” “And you only use a broom for flying, don’t you? Pathetic wizard!”

“You’re stupid!”

“Stupid yourself!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are! Come on, Iola, don’t pay any attention to her. Sorceresses are not our sort of company.” “Of course they aren’t!” yelled Ciri and threw the basket of grain on the ground. “Chickens are your sort of company!” The novices turned up their noses and left, passing through the horde of cackling fowl.

Ciri cursed loudly, repeating a favourite saying of Vesemir’s which she did not entirely understand. Then she added a few words she had heard Yarpen Zigrin use, the meanings of which were a total mystery to her. With a kick, she dispersed the chickens swarming towards the scattered grain, picked up the basket, turned it upside down, then twirled in a witcher’s pirouette and threw the basket like a discus over the reed roof of the henhouse. She turned on her heel and set off through the Temple park at a run.

She ran lightly, skilfully controlling her breath. At every other tree she passed, she made an agile half-turn leap, marking slashes with an imaginary sword and immediately following them with dodges and feints she had learned. She jumped deftly over the fence, landing surely and softly on bent knees.

“Jarre!” she shouted, turning her head up towards a window gaping in the stone wall of the tower. “Jarre, are you there? Hey! It’s me!” “Ciri?” The boy leaned out. “What are you doing here?”

“Can I come up and see you?”

“Now? Hmm… Well, all right then… Please do.”

She flew up the stairs like a hurricane, catching the novice unexpectedly just as, with his back turned, he was quickly adjusting his clothes and hiding some parchments on the table under other parchments. Jarre ran his fingers through his hair, cleared his throat and bowed awkwardly. Ciri slipped her thumbs into her belt and tossed her ashen fringe.

“What’s this war everybody’s talking about?” she fired. “I want to know!” “Please, have a seat.”

She cast her eyes around the chamber. There were four large tables piled with large books and scrolls. There was only one chair. Also piled high.

“War?” mumbled Jarre. “Yes, I’ve heard those rumours… Are you interested in it? You, a g—? No, don’t sit on the table, please, I’ve only just got all the documents in order… Sit on the chair. Just a moment, wait, I’ll take those books… Does Lady Yennefer know you’re here?” “No.”

“Hmm… Or Mother Nenneke?”

Ciri pulled a face. She knew what he meant. The sixteen-year-old Jarre was the high priestess’s ward, being prepared by her to be a cleric and chronicler. He lived in Ellander where he worked as a scribe at the municipal tribunal, but he spent more time in Melitele’s sanctuary than in the town, studying, copying and illuminating volumes in the Temple library for whole days and sometimes even nights. Ciri had never heard it from Nenneke’s lips but it was well known that the high priestess absolutely did not want Jarre to hang around her young novices. And vice-versa. But the novices, however, did sneak keen glances at the boy and chatted freely, discussing the various possibilities presented by the presence on the Temple grounds of something which wore trousers. Ciri was amazed because Jarre was the exact opposite of everything which, in her eyes, should represent an attractive male. In Cintra, as she remembered, an attractive man was one whose head reached the ceiling, whose shoulders were as broad as a doorway, who swore like a dwarf, roared like a buffalo and stank at thirty paces of horses, sweat and beer, regardless of what time of day or night it was. Men who did not correspond to this description were not recognised by Queen Calanthe’s chambermaids as worthy of sighs and gossip. Ciri had also seen a number of different men – the wise and gentle druids of Angren, the tall and gloomy settlers of Sodden, the witchers of Kaer Morhen. Jarre was different. He was as skinny as a stick-insect, ungainly, wore clothes which were too large and smelled of ink and dust, always had greasy hair and on his chin, instead of stubble, there were seven or eight long hairs, about half of which sprang from a large wart. Truly, Ciri did not understand why she was so drawn to Jarre’s tower. She enjoyed talking to him, the boy knew a great deal and she could learn much from him. But recently, when he looked at her, his eyes had a strange, dazed and cloying expression.

“Well.” She grew impatient. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“There’s nothing to say. There isn’t going to be any war. It’s all gossip.” “Aha,” she snorted. “And so the duke is sending out a call to arms just for fun? The army is marching the highways out of boredom? Don’t twist things, Jarre. You visit the town and castle, you must know something!” “Why don’t you ask Lady Yennefer about it?”

“Lady Yennefer has more important things to worry about!” Ciri spat, but then immediately had second thoughts, smiled pleasantly and fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, Jarre, tell me, please! You’re so clever! You can talk so beautifully and learnedly, I could listen to you for hours! Please, Jarre!” The boy turned red and his eyes grew unfocused and bleary. Ciri sighed surreptitiously.

“Hmm…” Jarre shuffled from foot to foot and moved his arms undecidedly, evidently not knowing what to do with them. “What can I tell you? It’s true, people are gossiping in town, all excited by the events in Dol Angra… But there isn’t going to be a war. That’s for sure. You can believe me.” “Of course, I can,” she snorted. “But I’d rather know what you base this certainty on. You don’t sit on the duke’s council, as far as I know. And if you were made a voivode yesterday, then do tell me about it. I’ll congratulate you.” “I study historical treatises,” Jarre turned crimson, “and one can learn more from them than sitting on a council. I’ve read The History of War by Marshal Pelligram, Duke de Ruyter’s Strategy, Bronibor’s The Victorious Deeds of Redania’s Gallant Cavalrymen… And I know enough about the present political situation to be able to draw conclusions through analogy. Do you know what an analogy is?” “Of course,” lied Ciri, picking a blade of grass from the buckle of her shoe.

“If the history of past wars” – the boy stared at the ceiling – “were to be laid over present political geography, it is easy to gauge that minor border incidents, such as the one in Dol Angra, are fortuitous and insignificant. You, as a student of magic, must, no doubt, be acquainted with the present political geography?” Ciri did not reply. Lost in thought, she skimmed through the parchments lying on the table and turned a few pages of the huge leather-bound volume.

“Leave that alone. Don’t touch it.” Jarre was worried. “It’s an exceptionally valuable and unique work.” “I’m not going to eat it.”

“Your hands are dirty.”

“They’re cleaner than yours. Listen, do you have any maps here?”

“I do, but they’re hidden in the chest,” said the boy quickly, but seeing Ciri pull a face, he sighed, pushed the scrolls of parchment off the chest, lifted the lid and started to rummage through the contents. Ciri, wriggling in the chair and swinging her legs, carried on flicking through the book. From between the pages suddenly slipped a loose page with a picture of a woman, completely naked with her hair curled into ringlets, entangled in an embrace with a completely naked bearded man. Her tongue sticking out, the girl spent a long time turning the etching around, unable to make out which way up it should be. She finally spotted the most important detail in the picture and giggled. Jarre, walking up with an enormous scroll under his arm, blushed vioently, took the etching from her without a word and hid it under the papers strewn across the table.

“An exceptionally valuable and unique work,” she gibed. “Are those the analogies you’re studying? Are there any more pictures like that in there? Interesting, the book is called Healing and Curing. I’d like to know what diseases are cured that way.” “You can read the First Runes?” The boy was surprised and cleared his throat with embarrassment. “I didn’t know…” “There’s still a lot you don’t know.” She turned up her nose. “And what do you think? I’m not just some novice feeding hens for eggs. I am… a wizard. Well, go on. Show me that map!” They both knelt on the floor, holding down the stiff sheet, which was stubbornly trying to roll up again, with their hands and knees. Ciri finally weighed down one corner with a chair leg and Jarre pressed another down with a hefty book entitled The Life and Deeds of Great King Radovid.

“Hmm… This map is so unclear! I can’t make head or tail of it… Where are we? Where is Ellander?” “Here.” He pointed. “Here is Temeria, this space. Here is Wyzima, our King Foltest’s capital. Here, in Pontar Valley, lies the duchy of Ellander. And here… Yes, here is our Temple.” “And what’s this lake? There aren’t any lakes around here.”

“That isn’t a lake. It’s an ink blot…”

“Ah. And here… This is Cintra. Is that right?”

“Yes. South of Transriver and Sodden. This way, here, flows the River Yaruga, flowing into the sea right at Cintra. That country, I don’t know if you know, is now dominated by the Nilfgaardians—” “I do know,” she cut him short, clenching her fist. “I know very well. And where is this Nilfgaard? I can’t see a country like that here. Doesn’t it fit on this map of yours, or what? Get me a bigger one!” “Hmm…” Jarre scratched the wart on his chin. “I don’t have any maps like that… But I do know that Nilfgaard is somewhere further towards the south… There, more or less there. I think.” “So far?” Ciri was surprised, her eyes fixed on the place on the floor which he indicated. “They’ve come all the way from there? And on the way conquered those other countries?” “Yes, that’s true. They conquered Metinna, Maecht, Nazair, Ebbing, all the kingdoms south of the Amell Mountains. Those kingdoms, like Cintra and Upper Sodden, the Nilfgaardians now call the Provinces. But they didn’t manage to dominate Lower Sodden, Verden and Brugge. Here, on the Yaruga, the armies of the Four Kingdoms held them back, defeating them in battle—” “I know, I studied history.” Ciri slapped the map with her open palm. “Well, Jarre, tell me about the war. We’re kneeling on political geography. Draw conclusions through analogy and through anything you like. I’m all ears.” The boy blushed, then started to explain, pointing to the appropriate regions on the map with the tip of a quill.

“At present, the border between us and the South – dominated by Nilfgaard – is demarcated, as you can see, by the Yaruga River. It constitutes an obstacle which is practically insurmountable. It hardly ever freezes over, and during the rainy season it can carry so much water that its bed is almost a mile wide. For a long stretch, here, it flows between precipitous, inaccessible banks, between the rocks of Mahakam…” “The land of dwarves and gnomes?”

“Yes. And so the Yaruga can only be crossed here, in its lower reaches, in Sodden, and here, in its middle reaches, in the valley of Dol Angra…” “And it was exactly in Dol Angra, that inci— Incident?”

“Wait. I’m just explaining to you that, at the moment, no army could cross the Yaruga River. Both accessible valleys, those along which armies have marched for centuries, are very heavily manned and defended, both by us and by Nilfgaard. Look at the map. Look how many strongholds there are. See, here is Verden, here is Brugge, here the Isles of Skellige…” “And this, what is this? This huge white mark?”

Jarre moved closer; she felt the warmth of his knee.

“Brokilon Forest,” he said, “is forbidden territory. The kingdom of forest dryads. Brokilon also defends our flank. The dryads won’t let anyone pass. The Nilfgaardians either…” “Hmm…” Ciri leaned over the map. “Here is Aedirn… And the town of Vengerberg… Jarre! Stop that immediately!” The boy abruptly pulled his lips away from her hair and went as red as a beetroot.

“I do not wish you to do that to me!”

“Ciri, I—”

“I came to you with a serious matter, as a wizard to a scholar,” she said icily and with dignity, in a tone of voice which exactly copied that of Yennefer. “So behave!” The “scholar” blushed an even deeper shade and had such a stupid expression on his face that the “wizard” could barely keep herself from laughing. He leaned over the map once more.

“All this geography of yours,” she continued, “hasn’t led to anything yet. You’re telling me about the Yaruga River but the Nilfgaardians have, after all, already crossed to the other side once. What’s stopping them now?” “That time,” hawked Jarre, wiping the sweat which had all of a sudden appeared on his brow, “they only had Brugge, Sodden and Temeria against them. Now, we’re united in an alliance. Like at the battle of Sodden. The Four Kingdoms. Temeria, Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen…” “Kaedwen,” said Ciri proudly. “Yes, I know what that alliance is based on. King Henselt of Kaedwen offers special, secret aid to King Demawend of Aedirn. That aid is transported in barrels. And when King Demawend suspects someone of being a traitor, he puts stones in the barrels. Sets a trap—” She broke off, recalling that Geralt had forbidden her to mention the events in Kaedwen. Jarre stared at her suspiciously.

“Is that so? And how can you know all that?”

“I read about it in a book written by Marshal Pelican,” she snorted. “And in other analogies. Tell me what happened in Dol Angra or whatever it’s called. But first, show me where it is.” “Here. Dol Angra is a wide valley, a route leading from the south to the kingdoms of Lyria and Rivia, to Aedirn, and further to Dol Blathanna and Kaedwen… And through Pontar Valley to us, to Temeria.” “And what happened there?”

“There was fighting. Apparently. I don’t know much about it, but that’s what they’re saying at the castle.” “If there was fighting,” frowned Ciri, “there’s a war already! So what are you talking about?” “It’s not the first time there’s been fighting,” clarified Jarre, but the girl saw that he was less and less sure of himself. “Incidents at the border are very frequent. But they’re insignificant.” “And how come?”

“The forces are balanced. Neither we nor the Nilfgaardians can do anything. And neither of the sides can give their opponent a casus belli—” “Give what?”

“A reason for war. Understand? That’s why the armed incidents in Dol Angra are most certainly fortuitous matters, probably attacks by brigands or skirmishes with smugglers… In no way can they be the work of regular armies, neither ours nor those of Nilfgaard… Because that would be precisely a casus belli…” “Aha. Jarre, tell me—”

She broke off. She raised her head abruptly, quickly touched her temples with her fingers and frowned.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “Lady Yennefer is calling me.”

“You can hear her?” The boy was intrigued. “At a distance? How…”

“I’ve got to go,” she repeated, getting to her feet and brushing the dust off her knees. “Listen, Jarre. I’m leaving with Lady Yennefer, on some very important matters. I don’t know when we’ll be back. I warn you they are secret matters which concern only wizards, so don’t ask any questions.” Jarre also stood up. He adjusted his clothing but still did not know what to do with his hands. His eyes glazed over sickeningly.

“Ciri…”

“What?”

“I… I…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said impatiently, glaring at him with her huge, emerald eyes. “Nor do you, obviously. I’m off. Take care, Jarre.” “Goodbye… Ciri. Have a safe journey. I’ll… I’ll be thinking of you…”

Ciri sighed.

“I’m here, Lady Yennefer!”

She flew into the chamber like a shot from a catapult and the door thumped open, slamming against the wall. She could have broken her legs on the stool standing in her way but Ciri jumped over it deftly, gracefully executed a half-pirouette feigning the slash of a sword, and joyfully laughed at her successful trick. Despite running briskly, she did not pant but breathed evenly and calmly. She had mastered breath control to perfection.

“I’m here!” she repeated.

“At last. Get undressed, and into the tub. Quick.”

The enchantress did not look round, did not turn away from the table, looked at Ciri in the mirror. Slowly. She combed her damp, black curls which straightened under the pressure of the comb only to spring back a moment later into shiny waves.

The girl unbuckled her boots in a flash, kicked them off, freed herself of her clothes and with a splash landed in the tub. Grabbing the soap, she started to energetically scrub her forearms.

Yennefer sat motionless, staring at the window and toying with her comb. Ciri snorted, spluttered and spat because soap had got into her mouth. She tossed her head wandering whether a spell existed which could make washing possible without water, soap and wasting time.

The magician put the comb aside but, lost in thought, kept gazing through the window at the swarms of ravens and crows croaking horrifically as they flew east. On the table, next to the mirror and an impressive array of bottled cosmetics, lay several letters. Ciri knew that Yennefer had been waiting for them a long time and that the day on which they were to leave the Temple depended on her receiving these letters. In spite of what she had told Jarre, the girl had no idea where and why they were leaving. But in those letters… Splashing with her left hand so as to mislead, she arranged the fingers of her right in a gesture, concentrated on a formula, fixed her eyes on the letters and sent out an impulse.

“Don’t you even dare,” said Yennefer, without turning around.

“I thought…” She cleared her throat. “I thought one of them might be from Geralt…” “If it was, I’d have given it to you.” The magician turned in her chair and sat facing her. “Are you going to be long washing?” “I’ve finished.”

“Get up, please.”

Ciri obeyed. Yennefer smiled faintly.

“Yes,” she said, “you’ve finished with childhood. You’ve rounded out where necessary. Lower your hands. I’m not interested in your elbows. Well, well, don’t blush, no false shyness. It’s your body, the most natural thing in the world. And the fact that you’re developing is just as natural. If your fate had turned out differently… If it weren’t for the war, you’d have long been the wife of some duke or prince. You realise that, don’t you? We’ve discussed matters concerning your gender often enough and in enough detail for you to know that you’re already a woman. Physiologically, that is to say. Surely you’ve not forgotten what we talked about?” “No. I haven’t.”

“When you visit Jarre I hope there aren’t any problems with your memory either?” Ciri lowered her eyes, but only momentarily. Yennefer did not smile.

“Dry yourself and come here,” she said coolly. “No splashing, please.”

Wrapped in a towel, Ciri sat down on the small chair at the magician’s knees. Yennefer brushed the girl’s hair, every now and again snipping off a disobedient wisp with a pair of scissors.

“Are you angry with me?” asked the girl reluctantly. “For, for… going to the tower?” “No. But Nenneke doesn’t like it. You know that.”

“But I haven’t… I don’t care about Jarre in the least.” Ciri blushed a little. “I only…” “Exactly,” muttered the enchantress. “You only. Don’t play the child because you’re not one any more, let me remind you. That boy slobbers and stammers at the sight of you. Can’t you see that?” “That’s not my fault! What am I supposed to do?”

Yennefer stopped combing Ciri’s hair and measured her with a deep, violet gaze.

“Don’t toy with him. It’s base.”

“But I’m not toying with him! I’m only talking to him!”

“I’d like to believe,” the enchantress said as she snipped her scissors, cutting yet another wisp of hair which would not allow itself to be styled for anything in the world, “that during these conversations, you remember what I asked you.” “I remember, I remember!”

“He’s an intelligent and bright boy. One or two inadvertent words could lead him on the right track, to matters he should know nothing about. No one, absolutely no one must find out who you are.” “I remember,” repeated Ciri. “I haven’t squealed a word to anyone, you can be sure of that. Tell me, is that why we have to leave so suddenly? Are you afraid that someone’s going to find out I’m here? Is that why?” “No. There are other reasons.”

“Is it because… there might be a war? Everybody’s talking about another war! Everybody’s talking about it, Lady Yennefer.” “Indeed,” the magician confirmed coolly, snipping her scissors just above Ciri’s ear. “It’s a subject which belongs to the so-called interminable category. There’s been talk about wars in the past, there is talk now and there always will be. And not without reason – there have been wars and there will be wars. Lower your head.” “Jarre said… that there’s not going to be a war with Nilfgaard. He spoke of some sort of analogies… Showed me a map. I don’t know what to think myself any more. I don’t know what these analogies are, probably something terribly clever… Jarre reads various learned books and knows it all, but I think…” “It interests me, what you think, Ciri.”

“In Cintra… That time… Lady Yennefer, my grandmother was much cleverer than Jarre. King Eist was clever, too. He sailed the seas, saw everything, even a narwhal and sea serpent, and I bet he also saw many an analogy. And so what? Suddenly they appeared, the Nilfgaardians…” Ciri raised her head and her voice stuck in her throat. Yennefer put her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

“Unfortunately,” she said quietly, “unfortunately, you’re right, my ugly one. If the ability to make use of experience and draw conclusions decided, we would have forgotten what war is a long time ago. But those whose goal is war have never been held back, nor will be, by experience or analogy.” “So… It’s true, after all. There is going to be a war. Is that why we have to leave?” “Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not worry too soon.”

Ciri sniffed.

“I’ve already seen a war,” she whispered. “I don’t want to see another. Never. I don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to be frightened. I don’t want to lose everything again, like that time. I don’t want to lose Geralt… or you, Lady Yennefer. I don’t want to lose you. I want to stay with you. And him. Always.” “You will.” The magician’s voice trembled a little. “And I’m going to be with you, Ciri. Always. I promise you.” Ciri sniffed again. Yennefer coughed quietly, put down the scissors and comb, got to her feet and crossed over to the window. The ravens were still croaking in their flight towards the mountains.

“When I arrived here,” the lady magician suddenly said in her usual, melodious, slightly mocking voice. “When we first met… You didn’t like me.” Ciri did not say anything. Our first meeting, she thought. I remember. I was in the Grotto with the other girls. Hrosvitha was showing us plants and herbs. Then Iola the First came in and whispered something in Hrosvitha’s ear. The priestess grimaced with animosity. And Iola the First came up to me with a strange expression on her face. “Get yourself together, Ciri,” she said, “and go the refectory, quick. Mother Nenneke is summoning you. Someone has arrived.” Strange, meaningful glances, excitement in their eyes. And whispers. Yennefer. “Magician Yennefer. Quick, Ciri, hurry up. Mother Nenneke is waiting. And she is waiting.” I knew immediately, thought Ciri, that it was her. Because I’d seen her. I’d seen her the night before. In my dream.

Her.

I didn’t know her name then. She didn’t say anything in my dream. She only looked at me and behind her, in the darkness, I saw a closed door… Ciri sighed. Yennefer turned and the obsidian star on her neck glittered with a thousand reflections.

“You’re right,” admitted the girl seriously, looking straight into the magician’s violet eyes. “I didn’t like you.” “Ciri,” said Nenneke, “come closer. This is Lady Yennefer from Vengerberg, Mistress of Wizardry. Don’t be frightened. Lady Yennefer knows who you are. You can trust her.” The girl bowed, interlocking her palms in a gesture of full respect. The enchantress, rustling her long, black dress, approached, took Ciri by the chin and quite off-handedly lifted her head, turning it right and left. The girl felt anger and rebellion rising within her – she was not used to being treated this way. And at the same time, she experienced a burning envy. Yennefer was very beautiful. Compared to the delicate, pale and rather common comeliness of the priestesses and novices who Ciri saw every day, the magician glowed with a conscious, even demonstrative loveliness, emphasised and accentuated in every detail. Her raven-black locks cascading down her shoulders shone, reflected the light like the feathers of a peacock, curling and undulating with every move. Ciri suddenly felt ashamed, ashamed of her grazed elbows, chapped hands, broken nails, her ashen, stringy hair. All of a sudden, she had an overwhelming desire to possess what Yennefer had – a beautiful, exposed neck and on it a lovely black velvet ribbon with a lovely glittering star. Regular eyebrows, accentuated with charcoal, and long eyelashes. Proud lips. And those two mounds which rose with every breath, hugged by black cloth and white lace… “So this is the famous Surprise.” The magician twisted her lips a little. “Look me in the eyes, girl.” Ciri shuddered and hunched her shoulders. No, she did not envy Yennefer that one thing – did not desire to have it or even look at it. Those eyes, violet, deep as a fathomless lake, strangely bright, dispassionate and malefic. Terrifying.

The magician turned towards the stout high priestess. The star on her neck flamed with reflections of the sun beaming through the window into the refectory.

“Yes, Nenneke,” she said. “There can be no doubt. One just has to look into those green eyes to know that there is something in her. High forehead, regular arch of the brows, eyes set attractively apart. Narrow nose. Long fingers. Rare hair pigment. Obvious elven blood, although there is not much of it in her. An elven great-grandfather or great-grandmother. Have I guessed correctly?” “I don’t know her family tree,” the high priestess replied calmly. “It didn’t interest me.” “Tall for her age,” continued the magician, still appraising Ciri with her eyes. The girl was boiling over with fury and annoyance, struggling with an overpowering desire to scream defiantly, scream her lungs out, stamp her feet and run off to the park, on the way knocking over the vase on the table and slamming the door so as to make the plaster crumble from the ceiling.

“Not badly developed.” Yennefer did not take her eyes off her. “Has she suffered any infectious diseases in childhood? Ha, no doubt you didn’t ask her about that either. Has she been ill since she’s been here?” “No.”

“Any migraines? Fainting? Inclination to catch cold? Painful periods?”

“No. Only those dreams.”

“I know.” Yennefer gathered the hair from her cheek. “He wrote about that. It appears from his letter that in Kaer Morhen they didn’t try out any of their… experiments on her. I would like to believe that’s true.” “It is. They gave her only natural stimulants.”

“Stimulants are never natural!” The magician raised her voice. “Never! It is precisely the stimulants which may have aggravated her symptoms in… Damn it, I never suspected him of such irresponsibility!” “Calm down.” Nenneke looked at her coldly and, all of a sudden, somehow oddly without respect. “I said they were natural and absolutely safe. Forgive me, dear, but in this respect I am a greater authority than you. I know it is exceedingly difficult for you to accept someone else’s authority but in this case I am forced to inflict it on you. And let there be no more talk about it.” “As you wish.” Yennefer pursed her lips. “Well, come on, girl. We don’t have much time. It would be a sin to waste it.” Ciri could barely keep her hands from shaking; she swallowed hard and looked inquiringly at Nenneke. The high priestess was serious, as if sad, and the smile with which she answered the unspoken question was unpleasantly false.

“You’re going with Lady Yennefer now,” she said. “Lady Yennefer is going to be looking after you for a while.” Ciri bowed her head and clenched her teeth.

“You are no doubt baffled,” continued Nenneke, “that a Mistress of Wizardry is suddenly taking you into her care. But you are a reasonable girl, Ciri. You can guess why. You have inherited certain… attributes from your ancestors. You know what I am talking about. You used to come to me, after those dreams, after the nocturnal disturbances in the dormitory. I couldn’t help you. But Lady Yennefer—” “Lady Yennefer,” interrupted the magician, “will do what is necessary. Let us go, girl.” “Go,” nodded Nenneke, trying, in vain, to make her smile at least appear natural. “Go, child. Remember it is a great privilege to have someone like Lady Yennefer look after you. Don’t bring shame on the Temple and us, your mentors. And be obedient.” I’ll escape tonight, Ciri made up her mind. Back to Kaer Morhen. I’ll steal a horse from the stables and that’s the last they’ll see of me. I’ll run away!

“Indeed you will,” said the magician under her breath.

“I beg your pardon?” the priestess raised her head. “What did you say?” “Nothing, nothing,” smiled Yennefer. “You just thought I did. Or maybe I thought I did? Just look at this ward of yours, Nenneke. Furious as a cat. Sparks in her eyes; just wait and she’ll hiss. And if she could flatten her ears, she would. A witcher-girl! I’ll have to take her firmly in hand, file her claws.” “Be more understanding.” The high priestess’s features visibly hardened. “Please, be kind-hearted and understanding. She really is not who you take her to be.” “What do you mean by that?”

“She’s not your rival, Yennefer.”

For a moment they measured each other with their eyes, the enchantress and the priestess, and Ciri felt the air quiver, a strange, terrible force between them growing in strength. This lasted no more than a fraction of a second after which the force disappeared and Yennefer burst out laughing, lightheartedly and sweetly.

“I forgot,” she said. “Always on his side, aren’t you, Nenneke? Always worrying about him. Like the mother he never had.” “And you’re always against him,” smiled the priestess. “Bestowing him with strong feelings, as usual. And defending yourself as hard as you can not to call the feelings by their rightful name.” Once again, Ciri felt fury rise up somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and her temples throbbed with spite and rebellion. She remembered how many times and under what circumstances she had heard that name. Yennefer. A name which caused unease, a name which was the symbol of some sinister secret. She guessed what that secret was.

They’re talking quite openly in front of me, without any restraint, she thought, feeling her hands start to shake with anger once more. They’re not bothered about me at all. Ignoring me completely. As if I were a child. They’re talking about Geralt in front of me, in my presence, but they can’t because I… I am… Who?

“You, on the other hand, Nenneke,” retorted the magician, “are amusing yourself, as usual, analysing other people’s emotions, and on top of that interpreting them to suit yourself!” “And putting my nose into other people’s business?”

“I didn’t want to say that.” Yennefer tossed her black locks, which gleamed and writhed like snakes. “Thank you for doing so for me. And now let us change the subject, please, because the one we were discussing is exceptionally silly – disgraceful in front of our young pupil. And as for being understanding, as you ask… I will be. But kind-hearted – with that, there might be a problem because, after all, it is widely thought I don’t possess any such organ. But we’ll manage somehow. Isn’t that right, Surprise?” She smiled at Ciri and, despite herself, despite her anger and annoyance, Ciri had to respond with a smile. Because the enchantress’s smile was unexpectedly pleasant, friendly and sincere. And very, very beautiful.

She listened to Yennefer’s speech with her back ostentatiously turned, pretending to bestow her full attention on the bumble bee buzzing in the flower of one of the hollyhocks growing by the temple wall.

“No one asked me about it,” she mumbled.

“What didn’t anybody ask you about?”

Ciri turned in a half-pirouette and furiously whacked the hollyhock with her fist. The bumble bee flew away, buzzing angrily and ominously.

“No one asked me whether I wanted you to teach me!”

Yennefer rested her fists on her hips; her eyes flashed.

“What a coincidence,” she hissed. “Imagine that – no one asked me whether I wanted to teach you either. Besides, wanting has got nothing to do with it. I don’t apprentice just anybody and you, despite appearances, might still turn out to be a nobody. I was asked to check how things stand with you. To examine what is inside you and how that could endanger you. And I, though not unreluctantly, agreed.” “But I haven’t agreed yet!”

The magician raised her arm and moved her hand. Ciri experienced a throbbing in her temples and a buzzing in her ears, as if she were swallowing but much louder. She felt drowsy, and an overpowering weakness, tiredness stiffened her neck and softened her knees.

Yennefer lowered her hand and the sensation instantly passed.

“Listen to me carefully, Surprise,” she said. “I can easily cast a spell on you, hypnotise you, or put you in a trance. I can paralyse you, force you to drink an elixir, strip you naked, lay you out on the table and examine you for hours, taking breaks for meals while you lie there, looking at the ceiling, unable to move even your eyeballs. That is what I would do with just any snotty kid. I do not want to do that to you because one can see, at first glance, that you are an intelligent and proud girl, that you have character. I don’t want to put you or myself to shame. Not in front of Geralt. Because he is the one who asked me to take care of your abilities. To help you deal with them.” “He asked you? Why? He never said anything to me! He never asked me—”

“You keep going back to that,” cut in the magician. “No one asked for your opinion, no one took the trouble to check what you want or don’t want. Could you have given cause for someone to consider you a contrary, stubborn, snotty kid, whom it is not worth asking questions like that? But I’m going to take the risk and am going to ask something no one has ever asked you. Will you allow yourself to be examined?” “And what will it involve? What are these tests? And why…”

“I have already explained. If you haven’t understood, that’s too bad. I have no intention of polishing your perception or working on your intelligence. I can examine a sensible girl just as well as a stupid one.” “I’m not stupid! And I understood everything!”

“All the better.”

“But I’m not cut out to be a magician! I haven’t got any abilities! I’m never going to be a magician nor want to be one! I’m destined for Geralt… I’m destined to be a witcher! I’ve only come here for a short period! I’m going back to Kaer Morhen soon…” “You are persistently staring at my neckline,” said Yennefer icily, narrowing her violet eyes a little. “Do you see anything unusual there or is it just plain jealousy?” “That star…” muttered Ciri. “What’s it made of? Those stones move and shine so strangely…” “They pulsate,” smiled the magician. “They are active diamonds, sunken in obsidian. Do you want to see them close up? Touch them?” “Yes… No!” Ciri backed away and angrily tossed her head, trying to dispel the faint scent of lilac and gooseberries emanating from Yennefer. “I don’t. Why should I? I’m not interested! Not a bit! I’m a witcher! I haven’t got any magical abilities! I’m not cut out to be a magician, surely that’s clear because I’m… And anyway…” The magician sat on the stone bench under the wall and concentrated on examining her fingernails.

“…and anyway,” concluded Ciri, “I’ve got to think about it.”

“Come here. Sit next to me.”

She obeyed.

“I’ve got to have time to think about it,” she said hesitantly.

“Quite right.” Yennefer nodded, still gazing at her nails. “It is a serious matter. It needs to be thought over.” Both said nothing for a while. The novices strolling through the park glanced at them with curiosity, whispered, giggled.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Have you thought about it?”

Ciri leaped to her feet, snorted and stamped.

“I… I…” she panted, unable to catch her breath from anger. “Are you making fun of me? I need time! I need to think about it! For longer! For a whole day… And night!” Yennefer looked her in the eyes and Ciri shrivelled under the gaze.

“The saying goes,” said the magician slowly, “that the night brings solutions. But in your case, Surprise, the only thing night can bring is yet another nightmare. You will wake up again, screaming and in pain, drenched in sweat. You will be frightened again, frightened of what you saw, frightened of what you won’t be able to remember. And there will be no more sleep that night. There will be fear. Until dawn.” The girl shuddered, lowered her head.

“Surprise.” Yennefer’s voice changed imperceptibly. “Trust me.”

The enchantress’s shoulder was warm. The black velvet of her dress asked to be touched. The scent of lilac and gooseberries intoxicated delightfully. Her embrace calmed and soothed, relaxed, tempered excitement, stilled anger and rebellion.

“You’ll submit to the tests, Surprise.”

“I will,” she answered, understanding that she did not really have to reply. Because it was not a question.

“I don’t understand anything any more,” said Ciri. “First you say I’ve got abilities because I’ve got those dreams. But you want to do tests and check… So how is it? Do I have abilities or don’t I?” “That question will be answered by the tests.”

“Tests, tests.” She pulled a face. “I haven’t got any abilities, I tell you. I’d know if I had them, wouldn’t I? Well, but… If, by some sheer chance, I had abilities, what then?” “There are two possibilities,” the magician informed her with indifference as she opened the window. “Your abilities will either have to be extinguished or you will have to learn how to control them. If you are gifted and want to, I can try to instil in you some elementary knowledge of magic.” “What does ‘elementary’ mean?”

“Basic.”

They were alone in the large chamber next to the library in an unoccupied side wing of the building, which Nenneke had allocated to the lady magician. Ciri knew that this chamber was used by guests. She knew that Geralt, whenever he visited the Temple, stayed right here.

“Are you going to want to teach me?” She sat on the bed and skimmed her hand over the damask eiderdown. “Are you going to want to take me away from here? I’m never going to leave with you!” “So I’ll leave alone,” said Yennefer coldly, untying the straps of her saddle-bags. “And I assure you, I’m not going to miss you. I did tell you that I’ll educate you only if you decide you want to. And I can do so here, on the spot.” “How long are you going to edu— Teach me for?”

“As long as you want.” The magician leaned over, opened the chest of drawers, pulled out an old leather bag, a belt, two boots trimmed with fur and a clay demi-john in a wicker basket. Ciri heard her curse under her breath while smiling, and saw her hide the finds back in the drawers. She guessed whose they were. Who had left them there.

“What does that mean, as long as I want?” she asked. “If I get bored or don’t like the work—” “We’ll put an end to it. It’s enough that you tell me. Or show me.”

“Show you? How?”

“Should we decide on educating you, I will demand absolute obedience. I repeat: absolute. If, on the other hand, you get tired of it, it will suffice for you to disobey. Then the lessons will instantly cease. Is that clear?” Ciri nodded and cast a fleeting glance of her green eyes at the magician.

“Secondly,” continued Yennefer, unpacking her saddle-bags, “I will demand absolute sincerity. You will not be allowed to hide anything from me. Anything. So if you feel you have had enough, it will suffice for you to lie, pretend, feign or close in on yourself. If I ask you something and you do not answer sincerely, that will also indicate an instant end to our lessons. Have you understood?” “Yes,” muttered Ciri. “And that… sincerity… Does that work both ways? Will I be able to… ask you questions?” Yennefer looked at her and her lips twisted strangely.

“Of course,” she answered after a while. “That goes without saying. That will be the basis of the learning and protection I aim to give you. Sincerity works both ways. You are to ask me questions. At any time. And I will answer. Sincerely.” “Any question?”

“Any question.”

“As of now?”

“Yes. As of now.”

“What is there between you and Geralt, Lady Yennefer?”

Ciri almost fainted, horrified at her own impertinence, chilled by the silence which followed the question.

The enchantress slowly approached her, placed her hands on her shoulders, looked her in the eyes from up close – and deeply.

“Longing,” she answered gravely. “Regret. Hope. And fear. Yes, I don’t think I have omitted anything. Well, now we can get on with the tests, you little green-eyed viper. We will see if you’re cut out for this. Although after your question I would be very surprised if it turned out you aren’t. Let’s go, my ugly one.” Ciri bridled.

“Why do you call me that?”

Yennefer smiled with the corners of her lips.

“I promised to be sincere.”

Ciri, annoyed, pulled herself up straight and wriggled in her hard chair which, after many hours of sitting, hurt her backside.

“Nothing’s going to come of it!” she snarled, wiping her charcoal-smeared fingers on the table. “After all this, nothing… Nothing works out for me! I’m not cut out to be a magician! I knew that right from the start but you didn’t want to listen to me! You didn’t pay any attention!” Yennefer raised her eyebrows.

“I didn’t want to listen to you, you say? That’s interesting. I usually devote my attention to every sentence uttered in my presence and note it in my memory. The one condition being that there be at least a little sense in the sentence.” “You’re always mocking me.” Ciri grated her teeth. “And I just wanted to tell you… Well, about these abilities. You see in Kaer Morhen, in the mountains… I couldn’t form a single witcher Sign. Not one!” “I know.”

“You know?”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“How’s that? Well… But that’s not all!”

“I’m listening in suspense.”

“I’m not cut out for it. Can’t you understand that? I’m… I’m too young.” “I was younger than you when I started.”

“But I’m sure you weren’t…”

“What do you mean, girl? Stop stuttering! At least one full sentence, please.” “Because…” Ciri lowered her head and blushed. “Because Iola, Myrrha, Eurneid and Katye – when we were having dinner – laughed at me and said that witchcraft doesn’t have access to me and that I’m not going to perform any magic because… Because I’m… a virgin, that means—” “I know what it means, believe it or not,” interrupted the magician. “No doubt you’ll see this as another spiteful piece of mockery but I hate to tell you that you are talking a lot of rubbish. Let us get back to the test.” “I’m a virgin!” repeated Ciri aggressively. “Why the tests? Virgins can’t do magic!” “I can’t see a solution,” Yennefer leaned back in her chair. “So go out and lose your virginity if it gets in your way so much. But be quick about it if you please.” “Are you making fun of me?”

“You’ve noticed?” The magician smiled faintly. “Congratulations. You’ve passed the preliminary test in perspicacity. And now for the real test. Concentrate, please. Look: there are four pine trees in this picture. Each one has a different number of branches. Draw a fifth to fit in with the other four and to fit in this space here.” “Pine trees are silly,” decreed Ciri, sticking out her tongue and drawing a slightly crooked tree with her charcoal. “And boring! I can’t understand what pine trees have to do with magic? What? Lady Yennefer! You promised to answer my questions!” “Unfortunately,” sighed the magician, picking up the sheet of paper and critically appraising the drawing, “I think I’m going to regret that promise. What do pine trees have in common with magic? Nothing. But you’ve drawn it correctly, and on time. In truth, excellent for a virgin.” “Are you laughing at me?”

“No. I rarely laugh. I really need to have a good reason to laugh. Concentrate on the next page, Surprise. There are rows of stars, circles, crosses and triangles drawn on it, a different number of each shape in each row. Think and answer: how many stars should there be in the last row?” “Stars are silly!”

“How many?”

“Three!”

Yennefer did not say anything for a long time. She stared at a detail on the carved wardrobe door known only to her. The mischievous smile on Ciri’s lips started slowly to disappear until finally it disappeared altogether, without a trace.

“No doubt you were curious to learn,” said the magician very slowly, not ceasing to admire the wardrobe, “what would happen if you gave me a senseless and stupid reply. You thought perhaps that I might not notice because I am not in the least interested in your answers? You thought wrongly. You believed, perhaps, that I would simply accept that you are stupid? You were wrong. But if you are bored of being tested and wanted, for a change, to test me… Well, that has clearly worked, hasn’t it? Either way, this test is concluded. Return the paper.” “I’m sorry, Lady Yennefer.” The girl lowered her head. “There should, of course, be… one star there. I’m very sorry. Please don’t be angry with me.” “Look at me, Ciri.”

The girl raised her eyes, astonished. Because for the first time the magician had called her by her name.

“Ciri,” said Yennefer. “Know that, despite appearances, I get angry just as rarely as I laugh. You haven’t made me angry. But in apologising you have proved I wasn’t wrong about you. And now take the next sheet of paper. As you can see there are five houses on it. Draw the sixth…” “Again? I really can’t understand why—”

“…the sixth house.” The lady magician’s voice changed dangerously and her eyes flashed with a violet glow. “Here, in this space. Don’t make me repeat myself, please.” After apples, pine trees, stars, fishes and houses, came the turn of labyrinths through which she had to quickly find a path, wavy lines, blots which looked like squashed cockroaches, and mosaics which made her go cross-eyed and set her head spinning. Then there was a shining ball on a piece of string at which she had to stare for a long time. Staring at it was as dull as dish-water and Ciri kept falling asleep. Yennefer, surprisingly, did not care even though a few days earlier she had scolded her grimly for napping over one of the cockroach blots.

Poring over the tests had made her neck and back ache and day by day they grew more painful. She missed movement and fresh air and, obliged to be sincere, she immediately told Yennefer. The magician took it easily, as if she had been expecting this for a long time.

For the next two days they both ran through the park, jumped over ditches and fences under the amused or pitying eyes of the priestesses and novices. They exercised and practised their balance walking along the top of the wall which encircled the orchard and farm buildings. Unlike the training in Kaer Morhen, though, the exercises with Yennefer were always accompanied by theory. The magician taught Ciri how to breathe, guiding the movement of her chest and diaphragm with strong pressure from her hand. She explained the rules of movement, how muscles and bones work, and demonstrated how to rest, release tension and relax.

During one such session of relaxation, stretched out on the grass and gazing at the sky, Ciri asked a question which was bothering her. “Lady Yennefer? When are we finally going to finish the tests?” “Do they bore you so much?”

“No… But I’d like to know whether I’m cut out to be a magician.”

“You are.”

“You know that already?”

“I knew from the start. Few people can detect the activity of my star. Very few. You noticed it straight away.” “And the tests?”

“Concluded. I already know what I wanted to about you.”

“But some of the tasks… They didn’t work out very well. You said yourself that… Are you really sure? You’re not mistaken? You’re sure I have the ability?” “I’m sure.”

“But—”

“Ciri.” The enchantress looked both amused and impatient. “From the moment we lay down in the meadow, I have been talking to you without using my voice. It’s called telepathy, remember that. And as you no doubt noticed, it has not made our talking together any more difficult.” “Magic” – Yennefer, her eyes fixed on the sky above the hills, rested her hands on the pommel of her saddle – “is, in some people’s opinion, the embodiment of Chaos. It is a key capable of opening the forbidden door. The door behind which lurk nightmares, fear and unimaginable horrors, behind which enemies hide and wait, destructive powers, the forces of pure Evil capable of annihilating not only the one who opens the door but with them the entire world. And since there is no lack of those who try to open the door, someone, at some point, is going to make a mistake and then the destruction of the world will be forejudged and inevitable. Magic is, therefore, the revenge and the weapon of Chaos. The fact that, following the Conjunction of the Spheres, people have learned to use magic, is the curse and undoing of the world. The undoing of mankind. And that’s how it is, Ciri. Those who believe that magic is Chaos are not mistaken.” Spurred on by its mistress’s heels, the magician’s black stallion neighed lengthily and slowly made his way into the heather. Ciri hastened her horse, followed in Yennefer’s tracks and caught up with her. The heather reached to their stirrups.

“Magic,” Yennefer continued after a while, “is, in some people’s opinion, art. Great, elitist art, capable of creating beautiful and extraordinary things. Magic is a talent granted to only a chosen few. Others, deprived of talent, can only look at the results of the artists’ works with admiration and envy, can admire the finished work while feeling that without these creations and without this talent the world would be a poorer place. The fact that, following the Conjunction of the Spheres, some chosen few discovered talent and magic within themselves, the fact that they found Art within themselves, is the blessing of beauty. And that’s how it is. Those who believe that magic is art are also right.” On the long bare hill which protruded from the heath like the back of some lurking predator lay an enormous boulder supported by a few smaller stones. The magician guided her horse in its direction without pausing her lecture.

“There are also those according to whom magic is a science. In order to master it, talent and innate ability alone are not enough. Years of keen study and arduous work are essential; endurance and self-discipline are necessary. Magic acquired like this is knowledge, learning, the limits of which are constantly stretched by enlightened and vigorous minds, by experience, experiments and practice. Magic acquired in such a way is progress. It is the plough, the loom, the watermill, the smelting furnace, the winch and the pulley. It is progress, evolution, change. It is constant movement. Upwards. Towards improvement. Towards the stars. The fact that following the Conjunction of the Spheres we discovered magic will, one day, allow us to reach the stars. Dismount, Ciri.” Yennefer approached the monolith, placed her palm on the coarse surface of the stone and carefully brushed away the dust and dry leaves.

“Those who consider magic to be a science,” she continued, “are also right. Remember that, Ciri. And now come here, to me.” The girl swallowed and came closer. The enchantress put her arm around her.

“Remember,” she repeated, “magic is Chaos, Art and Science. It is a curse, a blessing and progress. It all depends on who uses magic, how they use it, and to what purpose. And magic is everywhere. All around us. Easily accessible. It is enough to stretch out one’s hand. See? I’m stretching out my hand.” The cromlech trembled perceptibly. Ciri heard a dull, distant noise and a rumble coming from within the earth. The heather undulated, flattened by the gale which suddenly gusted across the hill. The sky abruptly turned dark, covered with clouds scudding across it at incredible speed. The girl felt drops of rain on her face. She narrowed her eyes against the flash of lightning which suddenly flared across the horizon. She automatically huddled up to the enchantress, against her black hair smelling of lilac and gooseberries.

“The earth which we tread. The fire which does not go out within it. The water from which all life is born and without which life is not possible. The air we breathe. It is enough to stretch out one’s hand to master them, to subjugate them. Magic is everywhere. It is in air, in water, in earth and in fire. And it is behind the door which the Conjunction of the Spheres has closed on us. From there, from behind the closed door, magic sometimes extends its hand to us. For us. You know that, don’t you? You have already felt the touch of that magic, the touch of the hand from behind that door. That touch filled you with fear. Such a touch fills everyone with fear. Because there is Chaos and Order, Good and Evil in all of us. But it is possible and necessary to control it. This has to be learnt. And you will learn it, Ciri. That is why I brought you here, to this stone which, from time immemorial, has stood at the crossing of veins of power pulsating with force. Touch it.” The boulder shook, vibrated, and with it the entire hill vibrated and shook.

“Magic is extending its hand towards you, Ciri. To you, strange girl, Surprise, Child of the Elder Blood, the Blood of Elves. Strange girl, woven into Movement and Change, into Annihilation and Rebirth. Destined and destiny. Magic extends its hand towards you from behind the closed door, towards you, a tiny grain of sand in the workings of the Clock of Fate. Chaos extends its talons towards you, still uncertain if you will be its tool or an obstacle in its design. That which Chaos shows you in your dreams is this very uncertainty. Chaos is afraid of you, Child of Destiny. But it wants you to be the one who feels fear.” There was a flash of lightning and a long rumble of thunder. Ciri trembled with cold and dread.

“Chaos cannot show you what it really is. So it is showing you the future, showing you what is going to happen. It wants you to be afraid of the coming days, so that fear of what is going to happen to you and those closest to you will start to guide you, take you over completely. That is why Chaos is sending you those dreams. Now, you are going to show me what you see in your dreams. And you are going to be frightened. And then you will forget and master your fear. Look at my star, Ciri. Don’t take your eyes from it!” A flash. A rumble of thunder.

“Speak! I command you!”

Blood. Yennefer’s lips, cut and crushed, move silently, flow with blood. White rocks flitter past, seen from a gallop. A horse neighs. A leap. Valley, abyss. Screaming. Flight, an endless flight. Abyss… In the depth of the abyss, smoke. Stairs leading down.

Va’esse deireádh aep eigean… Something is coming to an end… What?

Elaine blath, Feainnewedd… Child of the Elder Blood? Yennefer’s voice seems to come from somewhere afar, is dull, awakens echoes amidst the stone walls dripping with damp. Elaine blath— “Speak!”

The violet eyes shine, burn in the emaciated, shrivelled face, blackened with suffering, veiled with a tempest of dishevelled, dirty black hair. Darkness. Damp. Stench. The excruciating cold of stone walls. The cold of iron on wrists, on ankles… Abyss. Smoke. Stairs leading down. Stairs down which she must go. Must because… Because something is coming to an end. Because Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End, the Time of the Wolf’s Blizzard is approaching. The Time of the White Chill and White Light… The Lion Cub must die! For reasons of state!

“Let’s go,” says Geralt. “Down the stairs. We must. It must be so. There is no other way. Only the stairs. Down!” His lips are not moving. They are blue. Blood, blood everywhere… The whole stairs in blood… Mustn’t slip… Because the witcher trips just once… The flash of a blade. Screams. Death. Down. Down the stairs.

Smoke. Fire. Frantic galloping, hooves thundering. Flames all around. “Hold on! Hold on, Lion Cub of Cintra!” The black horse neighs, rears. “Hold on!”

The black horse dances. In the slit of the helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey shine and burn merciless eyes.

A broad sword, reflecting the glow of the fire, falls with a hiss. Dodge, Ciri! Feign! Pirouette, parry! Dodge! Dodge! Too sloooowwww!

The blow blinds her with its flash, shakes her whole body, the pain paralyses her for a moment, dulls, deadens, and then suddenly explodes with a terrible strength, sinks its cruel, sharp fangs into her cheek, yanks, penetrates right through, radiates into the neck, the shoulders, chest, lungs… “Ciri!”

She felt the coarse, unpleasant, still coolness of stone on her back and head. She did not remember sitting down. Yennefer was kneeling next to her. Gently, but decisively, she straightened her fingers, pulled her hand away from her cheek. The cheek throbbed, pulsated with pain.

“Mama…” groaned Ciri. “Mama… How it hurts! Mama…”

The magician touched her face. Her hand was as cold as ice. The pain stopped instantly.

“I saw…” the girl whispered, closing her eyes, “the things I saw in the dreams… A black knight… Geralt… And also… You… I saw you, Lady Yennefer!” “I know.”

“I saw you… I saw how—”

“Never more. You will never see that again. You won’t dream about it any more. I will give you the force to push those nightmares away. That is why I have brought you here, Ciri – to show you that force. Tomorrow, I am going to start giving it to you.” Long, arduous days followed, days of intensive study and exhausting work. Yennefer was firm, frequently stern, sometimes masterfully formidable. But she was never boring. Previously, Ciri could barely keep her eyes open in the Temple school and would sometimes even doze off during a lesson, lulled by the monotonous, gentle voice of Nenneke, Iola the First, Hrosvitha or some other teacher. With Yennefer, it was impossible. And not only because of the timbre of the lady magician’s voice and the short, sharply accentuated sentences she used. The most important element was the subject of her studies. The study of magic. Fascinating, exciting and absorbing study.

Ciri spent most of the day with Yennefer. She returned to the dormitory late at night, collapsed into bed like a log and fell asleep immediately. The novices complained that she snored very loudly and tried to wake her. In vain.

Ciri slept deeply.

With no dreams.

“Oh, gods.” Yennefer sighed in resignation and, ruffling her black hair with both hands, lowered her head. “But it’s so simple! If you can’t master this move, what will happen with the harder ones?” Ciri turned away, mumbled something in a raspy voice and massaged her stiff hand. The magician sighed once more.

“Take another look at the etching. See how your fingers should be spread. Pay attention to the explanatory arrows and runes describing how the move should be performed.” “I’ve already looked at the drawing a thousand times! I understand the runes! Vort, cáelme. Ys, veloë. Away from oneself, slowly. Down, quickly. The hand… like this?” “And the little finger?”

“It’s impossible to position it like that without bending the ring finger at the same time!” “Give me your hand.”

“Ouuuch!”

“Not so loud, Ciri, otherwise Nenneke will come running again, thinking that I’m skinning you alive or frying you in oil. Don’t change the position of your fingers. And now perform the gesture. Turn, turn the wrist! Good. Now shake the hand, relax the fingers. And repeat. No, no! Do you know what you did? If you were to cast a real spell like that, you’d be wearing your hand in splints for a month! Are your hands made of wood?” “My hand’s trained to hold a sword! That’s why!”

“Nonsense. Geralt has been brandishing his sword for his whole life and his fingers are agile and… mmmm… very gentle. Continue, my ugly one, try again. See? It’s enough to want to. It’s enough to try. Once more. Good. Shake your hand. And once again. Good. Are you tired?” “A little…”

“Let me massage your hand and arm. Ciri, why aren’t you using the ointment I gave you? Your hands are as rough as crocodile skin… But what’s this? A mark left by a ring, am I right? Was I imagining it or did I forbid you to wear any jewellery?” “But I won the ring from Myrrha playing spinning tops! And I only wore it for half a day—” “That’s half a day too long. Don’t wear it any more, please.”

“I don’t understand, why aren’t I allowed—”

“You don’t have to understand,” the magician said cutting her short, but there was no anger in her voice. “I’m asking you not to wear any ornaments like that. Pin a flower in your hair if you want to. Weave a wreath for your hair. But no metal, no crystals, no stones. It’s important, Ciri. When the time comes, I will explain why. For the time being, trust me and do as I ask.” “You wear your star, earrings and rings! And I’m not allowed? Is that because I’m… a virgin?” “Ugly one,” Yennefer smiled and stroked her on the head, “are you still obsessed with that? I have already explained to you that it doesn’t matter whether you are or not. Not in the least. Wash your hair tomorrow; it needs it, I see.” “Lady Yennefer?”

“Yes.”

“May I… As part of the sincerity you promised… May I ask you something?” “You may. But, by all the gods, not about virginity, please.”

Ciri bit her lip and did not say anything for a long time.

“Too bad,” sighed Yennefer. “Let it be. Ask away.”

“Because, you see…” Ciri blushed and licked her lips, “the girls in the dormitory are always gossiping and telling all sorts of stories… About Belleteyn’s feast and others like that… And they say I’m a snotty kid, a child because it’s time… Lady Yennefer, how does it really work? How can one know that the time has come…” “…to go to bed with a man?”

Ciri blushed a deep shade of crimson. She said nothing for a while then raised her eyes and nodded.

“It’s easy to tell,” said Yennefer, naturally. “If you are beginning to think about it then it’s a sign the time has come.” “But I don’t want to!”

“It’s not compulsory. You don’t want to, then you don’t.”

“Ah.” Ciri bit her lip again. “And that… Well… Man… How can you tell it’s the right one to…” “…go to bed with?”

“Mmmh.”

“If you have any choice at all,” the enchantress twisted her lips in a smile, “but don’t have much experience, you first appraise the bed.” Ciri’s emerald eyes turned the shape and size of saucers.

“How’s that… The bed?”

“Precisely that. Those who don’t have a bed at all, you eliminate on the spot. From those who remain, you eliminate the owners of any dirty or slovenly beds. And when only those who have clean and tidy beds remain, you choose the one you find most attractive. Unfortunately, the method is not a hundred per cent foolproof. You can make a terrible mistake.” “You’re joking?”

“No. I’m not joking, Ciri. As of tomorrow, you are going to sleep here with me. Bring your things. From what I hear, too much time is wasted in the novices’ dormitory on gabbling, time which would be better spent resting and sleeping.” After mastering the basic positions of the hands, the moves and gestures, Ciri began to learn spells and their formulae. The formulae were easier. Written in Elder Speech, which the girl already knew to perfection, they sank easily into her memory. Nor did she have any problems enunciating the frequently complicated intonations. Yennefer was clearly pleased and, from day to day, was becoming more pleasant and sympathetic. More and more frequently, taking breaks in the studies, both gossiped and joked about any old thing; both even began to amuse themselves by delicately poking fun at Nenneke who often “visited” their lectures and exercises – bristling and puffed up like a brooding hen – ready to take Ciri under her protective wing, to protect and save her from the magician’s imagined severity and the “inhuman tortures” of her education.

Obeying instructions, Ciri moved to Yennefer’s chamber. Now they were together not only by day but also by night. Sometimes, their studies would take place during the night – certain moves, formulae and spells could not be performed in daylight.

The magician, pleased with the girl’s progress, slowed the speed of her education. They had more free time. They spent their evenings reading books, together or separately. Ciri waded through Stammelford’s Dialogues on the Nature of Magic, Giambattista’s Forces of the Elements and Richert and Monck’s Natural Magic. She also flicked through – because she did not manage to read them in their entirety – such works as Jan Bekker’s The Invisible World and Agnes of Glanville’s The Secret of Secrets. She dipped into the ancient, yellowed Codex of Mirthe, Ard Aercane, and even the famous, terrible Dhu Dwimmermorc, full of menacing etchings.

She also reached for other books which had nothing to do with magic. She read The History of the World and A Treatise on Life. Nor did she leave out lighter works from the Temple library. Blushing, she devoured Marquis La Creahme’s Gambols and Anna Tiller’s The King’s Ladies. She read The Adversities of Loving and Time of the Moon, collections of poems by the famous troubadour Dandilion. She shed tears over the ballads of Essi Daven, subtle, infused with mystery, and collected in a small, beautifully bound volume entitled The Blue Pearl.

She made frequent use of her privilege to ask questions. And she received answers. More and more frequently, however, she was the one being questioned. In the beginning it had seemed that Yennefer was not at all interested in her lot, in her childhood in Cintra or the later events of war. But in time her questions became more and more concrete. Ciri had to reply and did so very unwillingly because every question the magician asked opened a door in her memory which she had promised herself never to open, which she wanted to keep forever locked. Ever since she had met Geralt in Sodden, she had believed she had begun “another life,” that the other life – the one in Cintra – had been irrevocably wiped out. The witchers in Kaer Morhen never asked her about anything and, before coming to the temple, Geralt had even prevailed upon her not to say a word to anyone about who she was. Nenneke, who, of course knew about everything, saw to it that to the other priestesses and the novices Ciri was exceptionally ordinary, an illegitimate daughter of a knight and a peasant woman, a child for whom there had been no place either in her father’s castle or her mother’s cottage. Half of the novices in Melitele’s Temple were just such children.

And Yennefer too knew the secret. She was the one who “could be trusted.” Yennefer asked. About it. About Cintra.

“How did you get out of the town, Ciri? How did you slip past the Nilfgaardians?” Ciri did not remember. Everything broke off, was lost in obscurity and smoke. She remembered the siege, saying goodbye to Queen Calanthe, her grandmother; she remembered the barons and knights forcibly dragging her away from the bed where the wounded, dying Lioness of Cintra lay. She remembered the frantic escape through flaming streets, bloody battle and the horse falling. She remembered the black rider in a helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey.

And nothing more.

“I don’t remember. I really don’t remember, Lady Yennefer.”

Yennefer did not insist. She asked different questions. She did so gently and tactfully and Ciri grew more and more at ease. Finally, she started to speak herself. Without waiting to be asked, she recounted her years as a child in Cintra and on the Isles of Skellige. About how she learned about the Law of Surprise and that fate had decreed her to be the destiny of Geralt of Rivia, the white-haired witcher. She recalled the war, her exile in the forests of Transriver, her time among the druids of Angren and the time spent in the country. How Geralt had found her there and taken her to Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Keep, thus opening a new chapter in her short life.

One evening, of her own initiative, unasked, casually, joyfully and embellishing a great deal, she told the enchantress about her first meeting with the witcher in Brokilon Forest, amongst the dryads who had abducted her and wanted to force her to stay and become one of them.

“Oh!” said Yennefer on listening to the story, “I’d give a lot to see that – Geralt, I mean. I’m trying to imagine the expression on his face in Brokilon, when he saw what sort of Surprise destiny had concocted for him! Because he must have had a wonderful expression when he found out who you were?” Ciri giggled and her emerald eyes lit up devilishly.

“Oh, yes!” she snorted. “What an expression! Do you want to see? I’ll show you. Look at me!” Yennefer burst out laughing.

That laughter, thought Ciri watching swarms of black birds flying eastwards, that laughter, shared and sincere, really brought us together, her and me. We understood – both she and I – that we can laugh and talk together about him. About Geralt. Suddenly we became close, although I knew perfectly well that Geralt both brought us together and separated us, and that that’s how it would always be.

Our laughter together brought us closer to each other.

As did the events two days later. In the forest, on the hills. She was showing me how to find… “I don’t understand why I have to look for these… I’ve forgotten what they’re called again…” “Intersections,” prompted Yennefer, picking off the burrs which had attached themselves to her sleeve as they crossed the scrubs. “I am showing you how to find them because they’re places from which you can draw the force.” “But I know how to draw the force already! And you taught me yourself that the force is everywhere. So why are we roaming around in the bushes? After all, there’s a great deal of force in the Temple!” “Yes, indeed, there is a fair amount there. That’s exactly why the Temple was built there and not somewhere else. And that’s why, on Temple grounds, drawing it seems so easy to you.” “My legs hurt! Can we sit down for a while?”

“All right, my ugly one.”

“Lady Yennefer?”

“Yes?”

“Why do we always draw the force from water veins? Magical energy, after all, is everywhere. It’s in the earth, isn’t it? In air, in fire?” “True.”

“And earth… Here, there’s plenty of earth around here. Under our feet. And air is everywhere! And should we want fire, it’s enough to light a bonfire and…” “You are still too weak to draw energy from the earth. You still don’t know enough to succeed in drawing anything from air. And as for fire, I absolutely forbid you to play with it. I’ve already told you, under no circumstances are you allowed to touch the energy of fire!” “Don’t shout. I remember.”

They sat in silence on a fallen dry tree trunk, listening to the wind rustling in the tree tops, listening to a woodpecker hammering away somewhere close by. Ciri was hungry and her saliva was thick from thirst, but she knew that complaining would not get her anywhere. In the past, a month ago, Yennefer had reacted to such complaints with a dry lecture on how to control such primitive instincts; later, she had ignored them in contemptuous silence. Protesting was just as useless and produced as few results as sulking over being called “ugly one.” The magician plucked the last burr from her sleeve. She’s going to ask me something in a moment, thought Ciri, I can hear her thinking about it. She’s going to ask about something I don’t remember again. Or something I don’t want to remember. No, it’s senseless. I’m not going to answer. All of that is in the past, and there’s no returning to the past. She once said so herself.

“Tell me about your parents, Ciri.”

“I can’t remember them, Lady Yennefer.”

“Please try to.”

“I really don’t remember my papa…” she said in a quiet voice, succumbing to the command. “Except… Practically nothing. My mama… My mama, I do. She had long hair, like this… And she was always sad… I remember… No, I don’t remember anything…” “Try to remember, please.”

“I can’t!”

“Look at my star.”

Seagulls screamed, diving down between the fishing boats where they caught scourings and tiny fish emptied from the crates. The wind gently fluttered the lowered sails of the drakkars, and smoke, quelled by drizzle, floated above the landing-stage. Triremes from Cintra were sailing into the port, golden lions glistening on blue flags. Uncle Crach, who was standing next to her with his hand – as large as the paw of a grizzly bear – on her shoulder, suddenly fell to one knee. Warriors, standing in rows, rhythmically struck their shields with their swords.

Along the gang-plank towards them came Queen Calanthe. Her grandmother. She who was officially called Ard Rhena, the Highest Queen, on the Isles of Skellige. But Uncle Crach an Craite, the Earl of Skellige, still kneeling with bowed head, greeted the Lioness of Cintra with a title which was less official but considered by the islanders to be more venerable.

“Hail, Modron.”

“Princess,” said Calanthe in a cold and authoritative voice, without so much as a glance at the earl, “come here. Come here to me, Ciri.” Her grandmother’s hand was as strong and hard as a man’s, her rings cold as ice.

“Where is Eist?”

“The King…” stammered Crach. “Is at sea, Modron. He is looking for the remains… And the bodies. Since yesterday…” “Why did he let them?” shouted the queen. “How could he allow it? How could you allow it, Crach? You’re the Earl of Skellige! No drakkar is allowed to go out to sea without your permission! Why did you allow it, Crach?” Uncle Crach bowed his head even lower.

“Horses!” said Calanthe. “We’re going to the fort. And tomorrow, at dawn, I am setting sail. I am taking the princess to Cintra. I will never allow her to return here. And you… You have a huge debt to repay me, Crach. One day I will demand repayment.” “I know, Modron.”

“If I do not claim it, she will do so.” Calanthe looked at Ciri. “You will repay the debt to her, Earl. You know how.” Crach an Craite got to his feet, straightened himself and the features of his weatherbeaten face hardened. With a swift move, he drew from its sheath a simple, steel sword devoid of ornaments and pulled up the sleeve on his left arm, marked with thickened white scars.

“Without the dramatic gestures,” snorted the queen. “Save your blood. I said: one day. Remember!” “Aen me Gláeddyv, zvaere a’Bloedgeas, Ard Rhena, Lionors aep Xintra!” Crach an Craite, the Earl of the Isles of Skellige, raised his arms and shook his sword. The warriors roared hoarsely and beat their weapons against their shields.

“I accept your oath. Lead the way to the fort, Earl.”

Ciri remembered King Eist’s return, his stony, pale face. And the queen’s silence. She remembered the gloomy, horrible feast at which the wild, bearded sea wolves of Skellige slowly got drunk in terrifying silence. She remembered the whispers. “Geas Muire… Geas Muire!” She remembered the trickles of dark beer poured onto the floor, the horns smashed against the stone walls of the hall in bursts of desperate, helpless, senseless anger. “Geas Muire! Pavetta!” Pavetta, the Princess of Cintra, and her husband, Prince Duny. Ciri’s parents. Perished. Killed. Geas Muire, the Curse of the Sea, had killed them. They had been swallowed up by a tempest which no one had foreseen. A tempest which should not have broken out… Ciri turned her head away so that Yennefer would not see the tears swelling in her eyes. Why all this, she thought. Why these questions, these recollections? There’s no returning to the past. There’s no one there for me any more. Not my papa, nor my mama, nor my grandmother, the one who was Ard Rhena, the Lioness of Cintra. Uncle Crach an Craite, no doubt, is also dead. I haven’t got anybody any more and am someone else. There’s no returning… The magician remained silent, lost in thought.

“Is that when your dreams began?” she asked suddenly.

“No,” Ciri reflected. “No, not then. Not until later.”

“When?”

The girl wrinkled her nose.

“In the summer… The one before… Because the following summer there was the war already…” “Aha. That means the dreams started after you met Geralt in Brokilon?”

She nodded. I’m not going to answer the next question, she decided. But Yennefer did not ask anything. She quickly got to her feet and looked at the sun.

“Well, that’s enough of this sitting around, my ugly one. It’s getting late. Let’s carry on looking. Keep your hand held loosely in front of you, and don’t tense your fingers. Forward.” “Where am I to go? Which direction?”

“It’s all the same.”

“The veins are everywhere?”

“Almost. You’re going to learn how to discover them, to find them in the open and recognise such spots. They are marked by trees which have dried up, gnarled plants, places avoided by all animals. Except cats.” “Cats?”

“Cats like sleeping and resting on intersections. There are many stories about magical animals but really, apart from the dragon, the cat is the only creature which can absorb the force. No one knows why a cat absorbs it and what it does with it… What’s the matter?” “Oooo… There, in that direction! I think there’s something there! Behind that tree!” “Ciri, don’t fantasise. Intersections can only be sensed by standing over them… Hmmm… Interesting. Extraordinary, I’d say. Do you really feel the pull?” “Really!”

“Let’s go then. Interesting, interesting… Well, locate it. Show me where.” “Here! On this spot!”

“Well done. Excellent. So you feel delicate cramps in your ring finger? See how it bends downwards? Remember, that’s the sign.” “May I draw on it?”

“Wait, I’ll check.”

“Lady Yennefer? How does it work with this drawing of the force? If I gather force into myself then there might not be enough left down below. Is it right to do that? Mother Nenneke taught us that we mustn’t take anything just like that, for the fun of it. Even the cherry has to be left on its tree for the birds, so that it can simply fall.” Yennefer put her arm around Ciri, kissed her gently on the hair at her temple.

“I wish,” she muttered, “others could hear what you said. Vilgefortz, Francesca, Terranova… Those who believe they have exclusive right to the force and can use it unreservedly. I wish they could listen to the little wise ugly one from Melitele’s Temple. Don’t worry, Ciri. It’s a good thing you’re thinking about it but believe me, there is enough force. It won’t run out. It’s as if you picked one single little cherry from a huge orchard.” “Can I draw on it now?”

“Wait. Oh, it’s a devilishly strong pocket. It’s pulsating violently. Be careful, ugly one. Draw on it carefully and very, very slowly.” “I’m not frightened! Pah-pah! I’m a witcher. Ha! I feel it! I feel… Ooouuuch! Lady… Ye… nnnne… feeeeer…” “Damn it! I warned you! I told you! Head up! Up, I say! Take this and put it to your nose or you’ll be covered in blood! Calmly, calmly, little one, just don’t faint. I’m beside you. I’m beside you… daughter. Hold the handkerchief. I’ll just conjure up some ice…” There was a great fuss about that small amount of blood. Yennefer and Nenneke did not talk to each other for a week.

For a week, Ciri lazed around, read books and got bored because the magician had put her studies on hold. The girl did not see her for entire days – Yennefer disappeared somewhere at dawn, returned in the evening, looked at her strangely and was oddly taciturn.

After a week, Ciri had had enough. In the evening, when the enchantress returned, she went up to her without a word and hugged her hard.

Yennefer was silent. For a very long time. She did not have to speak. Her fingers, clasping the girl’s shoulders tightly, spoke for her.

The following day, the high priestess and the lady magician made up, having talked for several hours.

And then, to Ciri’s great joy, everything returned to normal.

“Look into my eyes, Ciri. A tiny light. The formula, please!” “Aine verseos!”

“Good. Look at my hand. The same move and disperse the light in the air.” “Aine aen aenye!”

“Excellent. And what gesture comes next? Yes, that’s the one. Very good. Strengthen the gesture and draw. More, more, don’t stop!” “Oooouuuch…”

“Keep your back straight! Arms by your side! Hands loose, no unnecessary moves with your fingers. Every move can multiply the effect. Do you want a fire to burst out here? Strengthen it, what are you waiting for?” “Oouuch, no… I can’t—”

“Relax and stop shaking! Draw! What are you doing? There, that’s better… Don’t weaken your will! That’s too fast, you’re hyperventilating! Unnecessarily getting hot! Slower, ugly one, calmer. I know it’s unpleasant. You’ll get used to it.” “It hurts… My belly… Down here—”

“You’re a woman, it’s a typical reaction. Over time you’ll harden yourself against it. But in order to harden yourself you have to practise without any painkillers blocking you. It really is necessary, Ciri. Don’t be afraid of anything, I’m alert and screening you. Nothing can happen to you. But you have to endure the pain. Breathe calmly. Concentrate. The gesture, please. Perfect. And take the force, draw it, pull it in… Good, good… Just a bit more…” “O… O… Oooouuuch!”

“There, you see? You can do it, if you want to. Now watch my hand. Carefully. Perform the same movement. Fingers! Fingers, Ciri! Look at my hand, not the ceiling! Now, that’s good, yes, very good. Tie it up. And now turn it around, reverse the move and now issue the force in the form of a stronger light.” “Eeeee… Eeeeek… Aiiiieee…”

“Stop moaning! Control yourself! It’s just cramp! It’ll stop in a moment! Fingers wider, extinguish it, give it back, give it back from yourself! Slower, damn it, or your blood vessels will burst again!” “Eeeeeek!”

“Too abrupt, ugly one, still too abrupt. I know the force is bursting out but you have to learn to control it. You mustn’t allow outbursts like the one a moment ago. If I hadn’t insulated you, you would have caused havoc here. Now, once more. We’re starting right from the beginning. Move and formula.” “No! Not again! I can’t!”

“Breathe slowly and stop shaking. It’s plain hysteria this time, you don’t fool me. Control yourself, concentrate and begin.” “No, please, Lady Yennefer… It hurts… I feel sick…”

“Just no tears, Ciri. There’s no sight more nauseating than a magician crying. Nothing arouses greater pity. Remember that. Never forget that. One more time, from the beginning. Spell and gesture. No, no, this time without copying me. You’re going to do it by yourself. So, use your memory!” “Aine verseos… Aine aen aenye… Oooouuuuch!”

“No! Too fast!”

Magic, like a spiked iron arrow, lodged in her. Wounded her deeply. Hurt. Hurt with the strange sort of pain oddly associated with bliss.

To relax, they once again ran around the park. Yennefer persuaded Nenneke to take Ciri’s sword out of storage and so enabled the girl to practise her steps, dodges and attacks – in secret, of course, to prevent the other priestesses and novices seeing her. But magic was omnipresent. Ciri learned how – using simple spells and focusing her will – to relax her muscles, combat cramps, control adrenalin, how to master her aural labyrinth and its nerve, how to slow or speed her pulse and how to cope without oxygen for short periods.

The lady magician knew a surprising amount about a witcher’s sword and “dance.” She knew a great deal about the secrets of Kaer Morhen; there was no doubt she had visited the Keep. She knew Vesemir and Eskel. Although not Lambert and Coën.

Yennefer used to visit Kaer Morhen. Ciri guessed why – when they spoke of the Keep – the eyes of the enchantress grew warm, lost their angry gleam and their cold, indifferent, wise depth. If the words had befitted Yennefer’s person, Ciri would have called her dreamy, lost in memories.

Ciri could guess the reason.

There was a subject which the girl instinctively and carefully avoided. But one day, she got carried away and spoke out. About Triss Merigold. Yennefer, as if casually, as if indifferently, asking as if banal, sparing questions, dragged the rest from her. Her eyes were hard and impenetrable.

Ciri could guess the reason. And, amazingly, she no longer felt annoyed.

Magic was calming.

“The so-called Sign of Aard, Ciri, is a very simple spell belonging to the family of psychokinetic magic which is based on thrusting energy in the required direction. The force of the thrust depends on how the will of the person throwing it is focused and on the expelled force. It can be considerable. The witchers adapted the spell, making use of the fact that it does not require knowledge of a magical formula – concentration and the gesture are enough. That’s why they called it a Sign. Where they got the name from, I don’t know, maybe from the Elder Speech – the word ‘ard’, as you know, means ‘mountain’, ‘upper’ or ‘the highest’. If that is truly the case then the name is very misleading because it’s hard to find an easier psychokinetic spell. We, obviously, aren’t going to waste time and energy on something as primitive as the witchers’ Sign. We are going to practise real psychokinesis. We’ll practise on… Ah, on that basket lying under the apple tree. Concentrate.” “Ready.”

“You focus yourself quickly. Let me remind you: control the flow of the force. You can only emit as much as you draw. If you release even a tiny bit more, you do so at the cost of your constitution. An effort like that could render you unconscious and, in extreme circumstances, could even kill you. If, on the other hand, you release everything you draw, you forfeit all possibility of repeating it, and you will have to draw it again and, as you know, it’s not easy to do and it is painful.” “Ooooh, I know!”

“You mustn’t slacken your concentration and allow the energy to tear itself away from you of its own accord. My Mistress used to say that emitting the force must be like blowing a raspberry in a ballroom; do it gently, sparingly, and with control. And in such a way that you don’t let those around you to know it was you. Understood?” “Understood!”

“Straighten yourself up. Stop giggling. Let me remind you that spells are a serious matter. They are cast with grace and pride. The motions are executed fluently but with restraint. With dignity. You do not pull faces, grimace or stick your tongue out. You are handling a force of nature, show Nature some respect.” “All right, Lady Yennefer.”

“Careful, this time I’m not screening you. You are an independent spell-caster. This is your debut, ugly one. You saw that demi-john of wine in the chest of drawers? If your debut is successful, your mistress will drink it tonight.” “By herself?”

“Novices are only allowed to drink wine once they are qualified apprentices. You have to wait. You’re smart, so that just means another ten years or so, not more. Right, let’s start. Arrange your fingers. And the left hand? Don’t wave it around! Let it hang loose or rest it on your hip. Fingers! Good. Right, release.” “Aaaah…”

“I didn’t ask you to make funny noises. Emit the energy. In silence.” “Haa, ha! It jumped! The basket jumped! Did you see?” “It barely twitched. Ciri, sparingly does not mean weakly. Psychokinesis is used with a specific goal in mind. Even witchers use the Sign of Aard to throw their opponent off his feet. The energy you emitted would not knock their hat off their head! Once more, a little stronger. Go for it!” “Ha! It certainly flew! It was all right that time, wasn’t it, Lady Yennefer?” “Hmmm… You’ll run to the kitchen afterwards and pinch a bit of cheese to go with our wine… That was almost right. Almost. Stronger still, ugly one, don’t be frightened. Lift the basket from the ground and throw it hard against the wall of that shack, make feathers fly. Don’t slouch! Head up! Gracefully, but with pride! Be bold, be bold! Oh, bloody hell!” “Oh, dear… I’m sorry, Lady Yennefer… I probably… probably used a bit too much…” “A little bit. Don’t worry. Come here. Come on, little one.” “And… and the shack?”

“These things happen. There’s no need to take it to heart. Your debut, on the whole, should be viewed as a success. And the shack? It wasn’t too pretty. I don’t think anyone will miss its presence in the landscape. Hold on, ladies! Calm down, calm down, why this uproar and commotion, nothing has happened! Easy, Nenneke! Really, nothing has happened. The planks just need to be cleared away. They’ll make good firewood!” During the warm, still afternoons the air grew thick with the scent of flowers and grass; pulsating with peace and silence, broken by the buzz of bees and enormous beetles. On afternoons like this Yennefer carried Nenneke’s wicker chair out into the garden and sat in it, stretching her legs out in front of her. Sometimes she studied books, sometimes read letters which she received by means of strange couriers, usually birds. At times she simply sat gazing into the distance. With one hand, and lost in thought, she ruffled her black, shiny locks, with the other she stroked Ciri’s head as she sat on the grass, snuggled up to the magician’s warm, firm thigh.

“Lady Yennefer?”

“I’m here, ugly one.”

“Tell me, can one do anything with magic?”

“No.”

“But you can do a great deal, am I right?”

“You are.” The enchantress closed her eyes for a moment and touched her eyelids with her fingers. “A great deal.” “Something really great… Something terrible! Very terrible?” “Sometimes even more so than one would have liked.”

“Hmm… And could I… When will I be able to do something like that?” “I don’t know. Maybe never. Would that you don’t have to.” Silence. No words. Heat. The scent of flowers and herbs.

“Lady Yennefer?”

“What now, ugly one?”

“How old were you when you became a wizard?”

“When I passed the preliminary exams? Thirteen.”

“Ha! Just like I am now! And how… How old were you when… No, I won’t ask about that—” “Sixteen.”

“Aha…” Ciri blushed faintly and pretended to be suddenly interested in a strangely formed cloud hovering over the temple towers. “And how old were you… when you met Geralt?” “Older, ugly one. A bit older.”

“You still keep on calling me ugly one! You know how I don’t like it. Why do you do it?” “Because I’m malicious. Wizards are always malicious.” “But I don’t want to… don’t want to be ugly. I want to be pretty. Really pretty, like you, Lady Yennefer. Can I, through magic, be as pretty as you one day?” “You… Fortunately you don’t have to… You don’t need magic for it. You don’t know how lucky you are.” “But I want to be really pretty!”

“You are really pretty. A really pretty ugly one. My pretty little ugly one…” “Oh, Lady Yennefer!”

“Ciri, you’re going to bruise my thigh.”

“Lady Yennefer?”

“Yes.”

“What are you looking at like that?”

“At that tree. That linden tree.”

“And what’s so interesting about it?”

“Nothing. I’m simply feasting my eyes on it. I’m happy that… I can see it.” “I don’t understand.”

“Good.”

Silence. No words. Humid.

“Lady Yennefer!”

“What now?”

“There’s a spider crawling towards your leg! Look how hide-ous it is!” “A spider’s a spider.”

“Kill it!”

“I can’t be bothered to bend over.”

“Then kill it with magic!”

“On the grounds of Melitele’s Temple? So that Nenneke can throw us out head first? No, thank you. And now be quiet. I want to think.” “And what are you thinking about so seriously? Hmm. All right, I’m not going to say anything now.” “I’m beside myself with joy. I was worried you were going to ask me another one of your unequal grand questions.” “Why not? I like your unequal grand answers!”

“You’re getting impudent, ugly one.”

“I’m a wizard. Wizards are malicious and impudent.”

No words. Silence. Stillness in the air. Close humidity as if before a storm. And silence, this time broken by the distant croaking of ravens and crows.

“There are more and more of them.” Ciri looked upwards. “They’re flying and flying… Like in autumn… hide-ous birds… The priestesses say that it’s a bad sign… An omen, or something. What is an omen, Lady Yennefer?” “Look it up in Dhu Dwimmermorc. There’s a whole chapter on the subject.” Silence.

“Lady Yennefer…”

“Oh, hell. What is it now?”

“It’s been so long, why isn’t Geralt… Why isn’t he coming?” “He’s forgotten about you, no doubt, ugly one. He’s found himself a prettier girl.” “Oh, no! I know he hasn’t forgotten! He couldn’t have! I know that, I know that for certain, Lady Yennefer!” “It’s good you know. You’re a lucky ugly one.”

“I didn’t like you,” she repeated.

Yennefer did not look at her as she stood at the window with her back turned, staring at the hills looming black in the east. Above the hills, the sky was dark with flocks of ravens and crows.

In a minute she’s going to ask why I didn’t like her, thought Ciri. No, she’s too clever to ask such a question. She’ll dryly draw my attention to my grammar and ask when I started using the past tense. And I’ll tell her. I’ll be just as dry as she is, I’ll parody her tone of voice, let her know that I, too, can pretend to be cold, unfeeling and indifferent, ashamed of my feelings and emotions. I’ll tell her everything. I want to, I have to tell her everything. I want her to know everything before we leave Melitele’s Temple. Before we part to finally meet the one I miss. The one she misses. The one who no doubt misses us both. I want to tell her that… I’ll tell her. It’s enough for her to ask.

The magician turned from the window and smiled. She did not ask anything.

They left the following day, early in the morning. Both wore men’s travelling clothes, cloaks, hats and hoods which hid their hair. Both were armed.

Only Nenneke saw them off. She spoke quietly and at length with Yennefer, then they both – the magician and the priestess – shook each other’s hand, hard, like men. Ciri, holding the reins of her dapple-grey mare, wanted to say goodbye in the same way, but Nenneke did not allow it. She embraced her, hugged her and gave her a kiss. There were tears in her eyes. In Ciri’s, too.

“Well,” said the priestess finally, wiping her eye with the sleeve of her robe, “now go. May the Great Melitele protect you on your way, my dears. But the goddess has a great many things on her mind, so look after yourselves too. Take care of her, Yennefer. Keep her safe, like the apple of your eye.” “I hope” – the magician smiled faintly – “that I’ll manage to keep her safer.” Across the sky, towards Pontar Valley, flew flocks of crows, croaking loudly. Nenneke did not look at them.

“Take care,” she repeated. “Bad times are approaching. It might turn out to be true, what Ithlinne aep Aevenien knew, what she predicted. The Time of the Sword and Axe is approaching. The Time of Contempt and the Wolf’s Blizzard. Take care of her, Yennefer. Don’t let anyone harm her.” “I’ll be back, Mother,” said Ciri, leaping into her saddle. “I’ll be back for sure! Soon!” She did not know how very wrong she was.