7 The Lady of the Lake.txt

 
THE LADY OF THE LAKE 
 
 

They kept riding until they came to a large, beautiful lake full of crystal clear water, and 
in the middle of the lake, Arthur saw an arm clothed in white cloth holding a beautiful sword. 
'Behold, there is the sword of which I spoke,' pointed Merlin. 
Suddenly they saw a girl walking on the surface of the lake. 
'Who is that girl?' asked Arthur. 
'That is the Lady of the Lake,' said Merlin. 
 
Sir Thomas Malory 
Le Morte Darthur 
 
 
Chapter One 
 
 
The lake was enchanted. About that there could be no doubt. 
Firstly: it lay beside the mouth of the enchanted valley Cwm Pwcca, the mysterious 
valley perpetually shrouded by fog and famed for its magical properties and phenomena. 
Secondly: one look was enough. 
The surface of the water was a deep blue like a polished sapphire and smooth as a mirror. 
So much so that the peaks of the mountain Y Wyddfa that were reflected in it were more 
beautiful than those that loomed over the lake. From the water blew a refreshing coolness and 
the dignified silence was disturbed by nothing, not even the splashing of fish or the cries of a 
bird. 
The knight shook off the impression. But rather than continue riding along the crest of the 
hill, he led his horse down to the lake. As if drawn by the magnetic force of a spell that 
slumbered there, deep down in the dark waters. The horse stepped timidly among the broken 
rocks, giving a snort indicating that he sensed the magical aura of the place. 
Upon reaching the bank the knight dismounted. He took the stallion's bridle and led him 
to where small waves disappeared among the coloured pebbles. 
His armour rattled when he knelt. Startling fry and fish as vivid as tiny needles, he 
scooped water into his hands. He drank slowly and cautiously, the ice cold water numbed his 
tongue and lips and hurt his teeth. 
When he bent down to collect water a second time a sound travelled over the surface of 
the lake. He raised his head. The horse whinnied, confirming that he also heard it. 
He listened. No, it was not an illusion. What he heard was singing. A woman singing. Or 
rather a girl. 
Like all knights he had been raised with bard tales of chivalry. In these tales a girl singing 
or calling was in nine cases out of ten, a lure. The knight who followed inevitably fell into an 
ambush. Often fatal. 
But curiosity won out. The knight was only nineteen years old. He was very courageous 
and very foolish. He was famous for one and known for the other. 
He checked that his sword was in its sheath, then led his horse and set off up the beach in 
the direction of the singing. He did not have to go far. 
The shore was strewn with huge boulders, dark and polished to a bright shine, giant toys 
carelessly tossed here and forgotten about after completing the game. Some of the boulders 
were lying in the water of the lake, under the dark surface. Some rose above the surface and 
were licked by small waves, giving the impression of being ridges of a sleeping Leviathan. 
But most of them were lying on the shore, from the beach to the forest. Some were buried in 
the sand and were only partially sticking out, leaving the imagination to guess how big they 
really were. 
The singing which the knight heard came from just behind those boulders. The singing 
girl remained invisible. He pulled his horse, holding him buy the muzzle and nostrils so as to 
stop him from neighing or snorting. 
The girl's clothes lay on one of the boulders lying in the shallows, flat like a table. The 
girl herself stood naked, waist-deep in the water and was washing, singing and splashing in 
the process. The knight listened to her singing but did not understand the words. 
And no wonder. 
The girl, he would be his head, was not human. This was demonstrated by the slender 
body, the strange hair colour and the voice. He was sure that if she turned around he would 
see big almond shaped eyes. And if she swept her ashen hair back he would see ears ending 
in points. 

This was a resident of Faerie. A fairy. One of the Tylwyth Teg. One of those, which the 
Picts and the Irish called Sidhe Daoine, the People of the Hills. One of those that the Saxons 
called elves. 
She stopped singing for a moment and immersed herself up to her neck, she panted and 
snarled and cursed. The knight, however was not fooled. Fairies, as everyone knew, knew 
how to swear like a human being. Some said as obscenely as a stable boy. And the curse was 
often a prelude to some malicious trick, which fairies were famous for – for example, 
increasing the size of someone's nose to the size of a cucumber or reducing the size of 
someone masculinity to the size of a bean. 
The knight had no interest in neither the first or the second option, so he tried to slip away 
quietly. He was betrayed by a horse. Not his own mount who he still held it's nostrils so he 
was quiet and calm, but the horse belonging to the fairy, which the knight did not initially 
noticed between the boulders. Now the pitch-black mare stamped at the gravel and neighed in 
greeting. The knight's stallion shook his head and replied politely. The echo reaching across 
the water. 
The fairy came splashing out of the water, presenting the knight for a moment all her 
glory pleasant to the eye. She threw herself toward the rock on which lay her clothes. But 
instead of grasping clothes to decently cover herself with, the fairy grabbed a sword and 
pulled it from its scabbard with a hiss, clutching the steel with amazing skill. It lasted a brief 
moment, after which the fairy quickly knelt down, hiding in the water up to her nose and 
holding her arm with the sword in it above the surface of the water. 
The knight blinked in amazement, dropped the reins and bent his knee, kneeling in the 
wet sand. He understood immediately who it was before him. 
'Hail, O Lady of the Lake,' he breathed while stretching out his hands, 'it is an honour, a 
tremendous honour... I accept your sword.' 
'I'd prefer if you rose and turned around,' the Fairy poked her mouth above the water. ' 
Maybe stop staring? And let me get dressed?' 
He obeyed. 
He heard her leaving the water and the rustling of clothes and the sound of her swearing 
softly as she pulled them onto her wet body. He busied himself staring at the black mare, its 
coat soft and shiny like the skin of a mole. It was definitely of noble blood and fast like the 
wind. It was undoubtedly a magic horse, and also an inhabitant of Faerie, as well as its 
owner. 
'You can turn around.' 
'Lady of the Lake...' 
'And introduce yourself.' 
'I am Galahad, of Caer Benice. A knight of King Arthur, Lord of Camelot, ruler of the 
Kingdom of Summer, as well as Dumnonia, Dyfeint, Powys, Dyfed...' 
'And Temeria?' she interrupted. 'Redania. Rivia, Aedirn? Nilfgaard? Would you say any 
of these names?' 
'No. I have never heard of them.' 
She shrugged her shoulders. In her hand, besides the sword she was holding boots and a 
shirt, washed and wrung out. 
'I thought so. What day is it?' 
'It is,' he replied with surprise, 'the second full moon after Beltane... Lady...' 
'Ciri,' she said unthinkingly, twisting her shoulders to better position the clothes drying 
on her skin. She spoke with a strange accent. Her eyes were green and huge... 
She instinctively brushed back her wet hair and the knight sighed involuntary. Not only 
because her ear was normal, human and in no way elven. Her cheek was marred by a huge, 
ugly scar. She had been injured. But how can you injure a fairy? 

She noticed his astonished gaze, she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. 
'A scar, yes!' she said with her striking accent. 'Why do you look so frightened? Is it 
such an uncommon thing for a knight, a scar? Or is it so ugly?' 
He slowly, with both hands pulled down the hood of his chain mail and passed his hands 
through his hair. 
'Certainly not an uncommon thing for a knight,' he said with youthful pride, 
demonstrating a barely healed scar running from his temple to his jaw. 'And nasty are the 
scars of honour. I am Galahad, son of Lancelot du Lac and Elaine, daughter of King Pelles, 
Lord of Caer Benic. This wound was caused to me by Breunis the Cruel, an undignified 
oppressor of women, even though I beat him in a fair duel. Truly, I am honoured to take this 
sword from your hand, Lady of the Lake...' 
'What?' 
'The sword. I am willing to accept it.' 
'This is my sword. I don't let anyone touch it.' 
'But...' 
'But what?' 
'The Lady of the Lake has always... Always emerges from the water and gives her 
sword.' 
She was silent for some time. 
'I understand,' she said finally. 'Well, another country, another custom. I'm sorry, 
Galahad or whatever your name is, but apparently you have not found the lady of which you 
have heard. I am not giving away anything. Or letting anything be taken. Let's be clear.' 
'But yet,' he dared to say, 'you've come from the Faerie, Lady, is it so?' 
'I come,' she said after a moment, her green eyes seemed to stare into the abyss of space 
and time. 'I come from Rivia, and from the city of the same name. Next to the lake Loc 
Eskalott. I came her on a boat. It was foggy. I could not see the edges. I heard neighing. 
Kelpie... My mare had followed me.' 
She spread her wet shirt out on a stone. The knight gave a start again. The shirt was 
washed, but not very thoroughly. He could still see traces of blood. 
'The river current brought me here,' continued the girl, without seeing that he had noticed 
or pretending not to see. 'The river current and the magic of the unicorn... What do you call 
this lake?' 
'I do not know,' he admitted. 'In Gwynedd there are many lakes...' 
'In Gwynedd?' 
'Of course. Those are the mountains, Y Wyddfa. If you keep them to your left and if you 
go through the forest for two days you'll arrive at Dinas Dinlleu and beyond that Caer Dathal. 
And the river... The nearest river...' 
'It's not important what the nearest river is. Do you have anything to eat, Galahad? I'm 
starving. Why are you looking at me like that? Are you afraid that I'll disappear? That I'll fly 
off with your sausage and biscuits? Don't be afraid. In my world I have created enough mess 
and I won't be going back for some time. So I will stay in yours for a time. In a world in 
which I search in vain for the Dragon or the Seven Goats in the night sky. Where we are now 
in the second full moon after Belleteyn and Belleteyn is pronounced Beltane. Why do you 
stare at me, I ask you?' 
'I did not know that fairies eat.' 
'Fairies, sorceresses and elves. They all eat. They drink. And so on.' 
'What do you mean?' 
'It does not matter.' 
The longer he studied her, the more she lost her magical aura and became more humane 
and ordinary – almost mundane. He knew, however, that such was not the case, it could not 

be. A plain, ordinary girl would never have been met alone at the foot of Y Wyddfa, on the 
edge of Cwm Pwcca, bathing naked in a mountain lake and washing a blood-stained shirt. No 
matter how the girl looked, in no case could she be an earthly creature. Despite knowing this, 
Galahad could look calmly and without superstitious fear at her mouse coloured hair, which 
to his amazement now that it was dry, was traversed by shiny streaks of grey. He could now 
look at her slender hands, her little nose, her pale lips her male clothing with a strange cut, 
made with an extremely delicate fabric. And her sword, with its strange design and 
ornaments, but did not seem like an ornament for parades. And her bare feet, covered with 
the dry sand of the beach. 
'To be clear,' she spoke, wiping one foot with the other, 'I'm not a fairy or an elf. A 
sorceress, that is, a fairy, I'm... a little unusual. Ehh, I'm not.' 
 'I'm sorry, really.' 
'Why are you sorry?' 
'They say...' he blushed and stammered. 'They say that fairies, if they happen to 
encounter a young man, they lead them to Elfland and there... Under the bushes in a forest, on 
a bed of moss, show them...' 
'I understand,' she looked at him quickly and firmly bit the sausage. 'In regards to the 
Land of the Elves,' she said swallowing, 'I fled there some time ago and I'm in no hurry to 
return. With regards to the bed of moss... Indeed, Galahad, you have not found the lady that 
was needed. Nevertheless, thank you for your interest.' 
'Lady! I did not mean to offend you...' 
'Do not apologise.' 
'It's because you are so beautiful.' 
' I thank you again. But this changes nothing.' 
They were silent for a while. It was hot. The sun at it zenith warmed the stones nicely. A 
slight breeze wrinkled the surface of the lake. 
'What does it mean..' Galahad suddenly said in a strangely exalted voice. 'What does it 
mean, a spear with bloody tip? What does it mean and why does the King suffer so, from a 
pierced thigh? What does a lady in white carrying a grail a silver cup...' 
'Are you feeling alright?' she interrupted. 
'I'm just asking.' 
'I do not understand your question. Is it a password? A signal with which to recognise 
initiates? Explain it to me.' 
'I cannot explain better.' 
'Then why do you ask?' 
'Because...' he said, fidgeting. 'Just... One of us did not ask we he had the opportunity. 
Either he could not find the words or her was ashamed... He did not ask and that is why many 
misfortunes have occurred. So now I always ask. Just in case.' 
 
*** 
 
'Are there any wizards in this world? You know, those dealing in magic. Mages. Seers.' 
'There is Merlin. Or Morgana. But Morgana is evil.' 
'And Merlin?' 
'About half.' 
'Do you know where to find him?' 
'Of course. In Camelot. In the court of King Arthur. I'm headed there.' 
'Is it far?' 
'From here to Powys, to the river Hafen, then up the Hafen to Glevum. From there it is 
near to the plains near the Kingdom of Summer. All in all about ten days riding.' 

'Too far.' 
'You can,' he stammered, 'shorten the journey by going through Cwm Pwcca. But it is an 
enchanted valley. It is horrible. There live the Y Dynan Bach Teg, evil dwarves...' 
'Do you only wear your sword for show?' 
'And can a sword do anything against magic?' 
'Can do, can do, do not doubt. I'm a witcher. Have you heard of them? Eh, of course you 
haven't heard. And I'm not afraid of dwarves. I have many friends among the dwarves.' 
Sure, he thought. 
 
*** 
 
'Lady of the Lake?' 
'My name is Ciri. Do not call me Lady of the Lake. It brings back unpleasant memories, 
painful, harmful. So they called me in the Land of... What did you call this land?' 
'Faerie. Or as the Druids say: Annwn. Or Elfland by the Saxons.' 
'Elfland...' she covered her shoulders with a chequered blanket. 'I was there, you know? I 
entered the Tower of the Swallow and bam, I was among the elves. And that's what they 
called me. Lady of the Lake. I even liked it at first. It flattered me. Until I realise that in that 
land, in that tower over the lake, I was no lady, but a prisoner.' 
'Is that,' he could not hide his curiosity, 'where you stained your shirt with blood?' 
She paused for a long time. 
'No,' she said at last, and her voice it seemed was trembling slightly. 'Not there. You 
have keen eyes. In short, you cannot escape the truth by hiding your head in the sand... Yes, 
Galahad. I'm often covering in blood in recent times. With the blood of the enemies I've 
killed. And with the blood of friends who I tried to save... and who died in my arms... Why 
do you look at me like that?' 
'I do not know if you are a goddess or a mortal woman. Or a supernatural being born on 
earth...' 
'Get to the point if you please.' 
'I wish,' Galahad's eyes flared, 'to hear thy story. Would you tell me, O Lady?' 
'It is long.' 
'We have time.' 
'And it does not end happily.' 
'I do not believe that.' 
'Why?' 
'You were singing as you bathed in the lake.' 
'You are observant,' she turned her head, pursed her lips and a wrinkled marred her face 
suddenly. 'Yes, observant, But very innocent.' 
'Tell me thy story. Please.' 
'Well, if you want,' she sighed. 'I will tell.' 
She sat down comfortably. The horses walked along the edge of the forest, grazing on 
grasses and herbs. 
'From the beginning,' Galahad prompted. 'From the very beginning...' 
'More and more, it seems to me' she said after a moment, tightly wrapping the plaid 
blanket around her, 'my story actually has no beginning. I'm not even sure whether it has 
actually ended. Know that the past and the present intermingle terribly. There was an elf who 
told me that it is like a snake that bites it own tail. This snake, so you know, is called 
Uroboros. And if he bites his own tail it means the circle is closed. In any moment of time is 
hidden the past, present and future. In any moment of time lies eternity. Do you understand?' 
'No.' 

'It doesn't matter.' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
Truly, I say, who believes in dreams is like one who wants to catch the wind or is 
grasping at shadows. Fooled by deceptive images in a curved mirror that lies or twists the 
truth like a false woman. It is a fool indeed who gives faith to the dream and walks the path of 
deception. 
But even he who has few dreams should not put faith in them and wisely does not. Why, if 
dreams would not have any meaning, would the gods gift us the ability to dream? 
 
The wisdom of the prophet Lebioda, 34; 1 
 
Is all that we see or seem 
But a dream within a dream? 
 
Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter Two 
 
 
A breeze wrinkled the steaming cauldron that was the surface of the lake, scattering thin 
ribbons of morning mist. The oarlocks squeaked and rumbled rhythmically, a bright spray of 
droplets showered from the oars. 
Condwiramurs put her hand on the railing. The boat was sailing at a slow speed and the 
water rose and fell just over her fingers. 
'Ah ah,' she said, putting as much sarcasm in her voice as she could. 'What a speed! We 
seem to be flying over the waves. My head is spinning!' 
The rower, a short, stocky, thickset man, growled something angry and indistinct, not 
even raising his head of overgrown curly hair, worthy of a sheep. The adept was already fed 
up of the muttering, grunting and growling, with which the man used to answer her questions. 
'Careful,' she said with difficulty, maintaining the peace. 'From rowing so rapidly you 
could overturn the boat.' 
This time the man lifted his face, with skin that was as dark as if it had been tanned. He 
muttered, coughed and pointed with his gray stubble chin to a line mounted on the rail on a 
wooden reel that disappeared into the water, straining with the motion of the boat. Apparently 
convinced that the explanation was enough, he continued rowing. With the same pace as 
before. Oars up. Pause. Lower the oars half into the water. Long pause. Pull. An even longer 
pause. 
'Ah,' Condwiramurs said looking at the sky. 'I understand. It is important that the lure 
that you drag behind the boat must move at the proper speed and the proper depth. Fishing is 
important. Nothing else matters.' 
It was so obvious that the man did not even both to grunt. 
'Well, who cares,' Condwiramurs continued her monologue, 'that I have been travelling 
through the night? That I'm hungry? That my ass hurts and itches from the hard, wet bench? 
That I have to pee? No, it is only important to catch fish. And it is pointless anyway. The lure 
that we are dragging behind us in the middle of the stream is not going to catch anything.' 
The man raised his head and gave her an ugly look. Condwiramurs flashed her teeth in a 
sly smile. The man continued to row slowly. He was angry. 
She collapsed on the bench at the stern and crossed her legs. So that the slits in her shirts 
were as visible as possible. 
The man grunted and pulled on the oars with his calloused hands, pretending not to 
watched anything but the tow rope. Of course, the speed of the rowing did not accelerate. The 
adept sighed in resignation and turned to watch the sky. 
The oarlocks creaked, shiny droplets splashed from the paddles. 
From out of the quickly lifting fog appeared the outline of an island. And rising above it 
the dark obelisk of a domed tower. The man, sitting with his back to it was aware that they 
had almost arrived. Taking his time, he placed the oars inside the boat, stood up and began to 
slowly wind the rope on the reel. Condwiramurs still with her legs crossed, whistled and 
watched the sky. 
The man slowly rolled up the end of the fishing line and began to view the lure – a shiny 
brass spoon equipped with a triple hook tail of dyed wool. 
'Oh, nothing caught,' Condwiramurs said sweetly, 'What a shame. I wonder why you 
were so unlucky? Maybe the boat was moving too fast?' 
The man gave her a look that said a lot of ugly things. He sat down, coughed, spat 
overboard grabbed the oars in his gnarled hands and bent his strong back. The oars splashed, 
stirring in the oarlocks and the boat was launched across the lake like an arrow, the water 
roared and foamed at the bow and circled in whirls at the stern. The distance separating them 

from the shore was about the quarter of the length of a crossbow shot and they covered the 
distance in two grunts. The boat slammed into the sand with such force that Condwiramurs 
fell off the bench. 
The man muttered, coughed and spat. The adept knew that translated into the language of 
civilized people as "Get out of my boat, annoying witch!" She also knew that she couldn't 
count on his arms to get her out. She took off her shoes, lifted her skirt of a provocative 
height and lowered herself from the ship. She swallowed a curse as the shells on the shore 
dug painfully into her feet. 
'Thank you,' she said through clenched teeth, 'for the ride.' 
Without waiting for the next grunt and not looking back, she walked barefoot towards the 
stone stairs. All the hardships and pains had fled without a trace, erased by her growing 
excitement. She was here on the island of Inis Vitre, on the lake Loc Blest. It was an almost 
legendary place where only a chosen few visited. 
The morning fog had lifted almost entirely, the red ball of the sun began to shine strongly 
in the heavens. Above the water, crying seagulls circled and flew around the battlements of 
the tower. 
At the top of the staircase leading from the shore to a terrace, leaning against a statue of 
crouching, grinning chimera, was Nimue. 
The Lady of the Lake. 
 
*** 
 
She was delicate and small, she was no larger than five feet. Condwiramurs heard 
mention that as a young girl they called her "Thumbelina," now she saw the nick name was 
appropriate. But she was sure that for a least half a century no one had dare say that to the 
little sorceress. 
'I'm Condwiramurs Tilly,' she introduced herself with a nod, a little embarrassed, still wit 
her shoes in her hand. 'I am happy that you have invited me to your island, Lady of the 
Lake.' 
'Nimue,' the little sorceress corrected. 'Nimue and nothing else. We can forgo the titles 
and epithets, Lady Tilly.' 
'In that case, I'm Condwiramurs. Condwiramurs and nothing else.' 
'Then, with your permission, Condwiramurs. We'll talk over breakfast. I guess you are 
hungry.' 
'I will not deny it.' 
 
*** 
 
The breakfast was rye bread, cottage cheese with chive butter, eggs and milk. Serving it 
was two very young, quiet and maid who smelled of starch. While dinning Condwiramurs felt 
the stare of the small sorceress. 
'This tower,' Nimue said, watching ever movement of her visitor, her every bite, 'has six 
floors, including one underground. Your room is on the second floor, you'll find all the 
necessary comforts. On the ground floor, you see, is for the management of the house, here is 
where then rooms for the servants are. In the basement is the laboratory and in the first and 
third floors are the library and the gallery. To all these floors you have free access and use to 
all the equipment that is in them, whenever you want.' 
'I understand. Thank you.' 

'In the upper two floors are my private rooms and office. In those rooms I was absolute 
privacy. For the future to avoid misunderstandings, note that in this respect I am very 
sensitive.' 
'I respect that.' 
Nimue turned her head towards the window, through which one could see the gruff 
fisherman who had managed to unload all of Condwiramurs luggage and now carried in his 
boat a reel, nets and other paraphernalia of the art of fishing. 
'I'm a little old fashioned,' she continued. 'But some things I'm used to using some 
things with exclusive rights. Toothbrushes, for example. My private rooms, my library, my 
bathroom. And the Fisher King. Please do not try and use the Fisher King.' 
 Condwiramurs nearly choked on her milk. Nimue's face expressed nothing whatsoever. 
'And if...' She continued before the woman regained speech. 'And if he was interested to 
use you, reject him.' 
Condwiramurs, swallowed and finally nodded her head, refraining from make any 
comments. Although she was about to say a stinging rejoined, that rural fisherman were not 
her type. Especially when they have a gray head and manifest themselves as morose louts. 
'So,' Nimue said emphatically. 'We have made our introductions. It is time to move on to 
more specific things. Do you want to know why out of so many candidates I choose precisely 
you?' 
Condwiramurs, if she thought a bit before answering, would only show that she was 
pretending not to show too much pride. She however, concluded that to show Nimue false 
modesty, even if it was only a very small degree, would sound too fake. 
'I'm the best at the academy,' she replied coolly, objectively and without boasting. 'In my 
third year I had the second best rating in oneiromancy.' 
'I could have brought to me the first.' Nimue said, painfully sincere. 'Incidentally, you 
were proposed to me with honours. Even quit strongly, because apparently you are the 
daughter of someone important. As for dreaming, dear Condwiramurs, you know, that 
oneiromancy it is a somewhat fickle gift. Failure can happen to even the best dreamer.' 
Condwiramurs again refrained from a brisk replay that its failures can be counted on the 
fingers of one hand. After all, she was speaking with a master. It is necessary to know peace 
in matters large and small, as one of her professors are the academy was fond of saying. 
Nimue's reward for her silence was a nod of approval. 
'I have detailed reports on you,' she said. 'I know that you do not need the help of 
dreaming dugs. I am glad, because I do not tolerate drugs.' 
'I dream without drugs,' Condwiramurs confirmed with pride. 'With oneiromancy it is 
enough for me if I have an anchor.' 
'What?' 
'Well, an anchor,' the adept cleared her throat. 'Something that the subject who I'm 
dreaming about is somehow associated with. Any personal belongings. Or a picture...' 
'A picture?' 
'Yes. I'm never wrong with a picture.' 
'Oh.' Nimue smiled. 'Oh if a picture helps, then we will not have a problem. If you have 
finished breakfast, let's go, the best and second best among the oneiromancers. It would be 
good for me to explain the other reasons why it is I chose you as an assistant.' 
The stone walls emitted cold, which even the dark wood panelling and carpeting wasn't 
able to stop. She felt cold even through the soles of her shoes. 
'Beyond these doors,' Nimue pointed out, 'is the laboratory. As I mentioned, you can use 
it as you wish. Of course, I recommend caution. Moderation is advised, especially id you try 
and force a broom to carry water.' 

Condwiramurs laughed out of politeness, even though it was an old joke. All the 
professors in her lectures entertained jokes that related to the mythical trouble of the 
legendary magician's apprentice. 
The staircase wound up like a sea serpent, and it seemed to have no end. It's stages were 
high and steep. Before they arrived, the young adept was panting and sweating, but Nimue 
seemed to appear not affected in any way by the effort. 
'This way please,' she opened a oak door. 'Beware the threshold.' 
Condwiramurs entered and sighed. 
The room was a gallery. Its walls were covered with paintings from floor to ceiling. There 
hung huge oil paintings, old chipped and cracked miniatures, engravings, and yellowed 
woodcuts, faded watercolours and sepia. There also hung here recent works – vivid colours, 
modernist tempera and gouache, aquatints and etchings of clean strokes, contrasting prints 
and mezzotints, which attracted the eye with its sharp black spots. 
Nimue stopped before a picture that was hanging closer to the door, depicting a group of 
people gathered under a huge tree. She looked at the canvas, then Condwiramurs and her 
silent gaze was extraordinary eloquent. 
'Dandelion,' the adept said, realising the point was not to wait, 'singing ballads at the foot 
of the oak Bleobheris.' 
Nimue smiled and nodded. She took a step and stood before another picture. Watercolour. 
Symbolism. Two female figures on a hill. Gulls circling above them, beneath them , on the 
slopes of the hill, a procession of shadows. 
'Ciri and Triss Merigold. The prophetic vision at Kaer Morhen.' 
Smile, nod, step, another picture. A rider on a galloping horse, a misshapen double row of 
alders, stretching out their arms their branches towards him. Condwiramurs felt a chill go 
through her. 
'Ciri... Hmmm... Apparently her night ride to her meeting with Geralt at the Halfling 
Hofmeier's farm.' 
The next picture, a dark oil painting. A battle scene. 
'Geralt and Cahir defending the bridge on the Yaruga.' 
Then faster and faster. 
 'Yennefer and Ciri, their first meeting in the temple of Melitele. Dandelion and the dryad 
Eithne, in the woods of Brokilon. The company of Geralt during a blizzard on the mountain 
pass of Malheur...' 
'Well done,' Nimue praised. 'A excellent knowledge of legend. Now you know the 
second reason why you are hear and not someone else.' 
 
*** 
 
Above the ebony table at which they sat, was dominated by a large canvas depicting a 
battle scene, it seemed to be the Battle of Brenna, a key moment in the battle or a tacky scene 
of a death of a hero. The canvas was beyond a doubt the work of Nicholas Certosy, you could 
tell by the expression, the perfect attention to details and the artist's lighting effects. 
'Yes, I know the legend of the Sorceress and the Witcher,' said Condwiramurs . 'I dare 
say, down to the smallest detail. As a child I loved this story, I literally listened to the story 
and read it many times. I dreamed to be Yennefer. But I'll be honest – even if it was love at 
first sight, even if they were explosively passionate... It was not eternal.' 
Nimue raised her eyebrows. 
'I learned that the history,' said Condwiramurs, 'was a popular abbreviation for young 
people, Later I naturally read a few of the so-call full and serious versions. Dilated to the 
border of redundancy and sometimes beyond. Then my passion was replaced by cool 

reflection and the passionate flare turned into something like a marriage of convenience. You 
know what I mean?' 
Nimue's nod was barely perceptible confirming that she knew. 
'In short, I prefer those legends that cling more to the legendary conventions, and do not 
mix fiction with reality and do not try and combine the simple and straightforward moral of a 
fairy tale with amoral historical truth. I prefer the legends without the prefaces of the 
encyclopaedists, archaeologists and historians. Those whose conventionalism are free of 
experiments. I prefer that if the prince comes to the top of Crystal Mountain and kisses 
Sleeping Beauty, she wakes up and the two live happily ever after. Yes, no other, should end 
a legend... Who painted this portrait of Ciri? The one on the stand?' 
'There is not one portrait of Ciri,' the voice of the little sorceress was dry. 'Neither here 
nor anywhere in the world. There remains not a single portrait or miniature painted by 
someone who has seen Ciri or even remembers her. The portrait on the stand shows Pavetta, 
Ciri's mother. It was painted by the dwarf, Ruiz Dorrit, the court painter for the rulers of 
Cintra. It was documented that Dorrit portrayed Ciri when she as ten years old, but the picture 
had not been preserved. Let us go back to the legend and your relationship with it. In your 
opinion how should legends end?' 
'They should have a good ending,' she insisted. 'Good must prevail. Evil must be 
punished by way of example; the lovers are joined together until the end of life. And none of 
the good heroes may due, dammit! And the legend of Ciri? How does it end? 
'Exactly. How?' 
Condwiramurs was speechless for a moment. She had not expected such a question; she 
smelled a test, an exam, a trap. She stopped to avoid being caught. 
How ends the legend of Ciri and Geralt? After all, everyone knows that. 
She stared into the dark tones of the watercolour depicting the clumsy barge moving 
along the surface over a misty lake, a figure standing on the barge was only visible as a black 
silhouette. 
This is how the legend ends. That's right. 
Nimue read her mind. 
'It is not that certain, Condwiramurs. It is not that certain.' 
 
*** 
 
'The legend,' said Nimue, "I first heard from the lips of a wandering storyteller. I was 
village child, the fourth daughter of a poor cottager. The most beautiful memories from my 
childhood are days when the wandering storyteller Pogwizd came to our village. I could 
forget for a few moments my work and in my mind's eye I could see these fabulous wonders, 
see this wide open world... A beautiful and miraculous world... Further and more wondrous 
than the town nine miles away... I was about six or seven years old. My sister was fourteen 
and she was beginning to slouch from the eternal toil. A woman's destiny. We were 
preparing for it since childhood. Slouching! We were constantly stooped, bending our backs 
to work, to care for the child because the weight of your gut has yet to recover from 
childbirth... It was these stories of the old man that made me begin to desire more than just 
toil and bending, dream more of giving birth, a husband and children. The first book I bought 
with the money I got for the sale of blueberries I picked in the forest was the legend of Ciri. 
This version as you aptly put it was softened and modified for young people. This was the 
version for me. I read poorly. But even then I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be like 
Philippa Eilhart or Sile de Tansarville, and Assire var Anahid...' 
Both looked at the gouache, representing a table in the hall of a castle with women sitting 
around it. Legendary women. 

'At the Academy,' continued Nimue, 'in which I entered on the second attempt, I was 
concerned with only the legend of the Grand Lodge and its aspect in the history of magic 
lectures. I had no time for reading for pleasure at first; I had to occupy my time... to keep 
pace with the daughters of earls and bankers for which everything was easy, they laughed at a 
village girl...' 
She paused, then snapped her fingers. 
'Finally,' she went on. 'I found time for reading, but then I realised that the adventures of 
Geralt and Ciri held far less interest to me that they did in my childhood. It appears to be a 
similar syndrome with me as with you. What did you call it? A marriage of convenience? 
That was until...' 
She paused and wiped her hands over her face. Condwiramurs noticed with astonishment 
that the little sorceress's hand trembled. 
'I was about eighteen when... when it happened. Something that revived the legend of 
Ciri in me. I started to deal with it seriously and scientifically. I devoted my life to it.' 
The adept was silent and listened intently. 
'Do not pretend like you did not know,' Nimue said sharply. 'Everyone knows that the 
Lady of the Lake is possessed by an almost unhealthy obsession with the legend of Ciri. 
Everyone gossips about how it started out as a harmless hobby that gradually turned into 
something like a drug addiction, or even mania. There are a lot of truth in these rumours, my 
dear Condwiramurs, a lot of truth! And you, if you chose to assist will also falling to mania 
and addiction. Because I demand it. At least for the duration of your practice. Do you 
understand?' 
The adept nodded. 
'You seem to understand,' Nimue controlled her emotions. 'But I'll explain. Gradually. 
And when the time comes, you'll know everything. But for now...' 
She paused and looked out the window at the lake, at the black silhouette of the boat of 
the Fisher King, a contrast to the shimmering, golden surface of the lake. 
'For now, rest. Look around the gallery. Look in cabinets and shelves and you'll find 
albums and cardboard prints, all related to the legend. In the library are all versions and 
transformations of the legend and almost all the scientific literature. Give them some time. 
Look, read, concentrate. I want you to get inspiration to dream. An anchor, as you say.' 
'I'll do it. Lady Nimue?' 
'I'm listening.' 
'The two portraits. These hanging side by side...Are these not Ciri?' 
'There are no portraits of Ciri,' Nimue patiently repeated. 'Later artists portrayed her only 
in scenes, each according to his own imagination. As for the portraits, the one on the left is a 
variation on the chosen topic, it is the elf Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, a person who the painter 
could not have known. The painters name is Lydia van Bredevoort. One of her surviving oils 
still hangs in the academy.' 
'I know. And the other portrait?' 
Nimue looked for a long time at the portrait of a young girl with blond hair and sad eyes. 
She was dressed in a white dress with green sleeves. 
'Robin Anderida painted it,' she said, she turned to look Condwiramurs straight in the 
eye. 'And whom it portrays... That is for you the dreamer and oneiromacy to find out. Dream 
this. And tell me your dream.' 
 
*** 
 

Master Robin Anderida saw the Emperor approaching first and bent low in a bow. Stella 
Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, stood up, curtsied and with a quick gesture motioned for the 
girl sitting in the carved chair to do the same. 
'My greeting, ladies,' Emhyr var Emreis nodded his head. 'And my greetings to you, 
Master Robin. How is your work?' 
Master Robin grunted embarrassed and bowed again, nervously wiping his fingers on his 
apron. Emhyr knew that the artist suffered from severe agoraphobia and was pathologically 
shy. But who cared about that. What mattered was how he painted. 
As usual, when he was travelling on the road, the emperor was wearing an officer's 
uniform of the "Impera" Guard Brigade – black armour and cloak embroidered with a silver 
salamander. He stepped closer and examined the portrait. First the portrait, then the model, a 
slender girl with blond hair and sad eyes. In a white dress with green sleeves and wearing a 
necklace with a single jewel. 
 'Excellent,' he said deliberately into space and in such a way that it was not possible to 
estimate what was praised. 'Excellent, Master. Please continue, do not pay any attention to 
me. If you will allow me a moment, Countess.' 
He walked a few steps towards the window forcing her to follow him. 
'I'm leaving,' he said quietly. 'Affairs of state. Thank you for your hospitality. And the 
princess. Well done, Stella. You really should be commended. Her too.' 
Stella Congreve curtsied deeply and with grace. 
'The Imperial Majesty is exceedingly kind to us.' 
'Do not praise the day before sunset.' 
'Oh...' she pursed her lips slightly. 'Is that so?' 
'It is.' 
'What is it, Emhyr?' 
'I do not know,' he said. 'In ten days we resume the offensive in the North. It promises to 
be a difficult, very difficult war. Vattier de Rideaux reveals new conspiracies and plots 
directed against me. The reasons of state my force many different things.' 
'This girl is not guilty of anything.' 
'I said: reasons of state. Reasons of state have nothing to do with justice. At the end of the 
day...' 
He waved a hand. 
'I want to talk to her. Alone. Come on, Princess. Faster. Closer. The Emperor 
commands.' 
The girl curtsied deeply. Emhyr measured her with his eyes, looking back to that fateful 
audience in Loc Grim. He was full of praise, nay, even admiration for Stella Congreve, who, 
within the six months that had elapsed since then, had managed to transform a clumsy ugly 
duckling into a young aristocrat. 
'Leave us,' he said. 'Take a break, Master Robin, say, to clean your brushes. You, 
Countess, please wait in the anteroom. And you, Princess, follow me to the terrace.' 
The wet snow that had fallen during the night had melted in the early morning sun, but 
the rooftops and towers of the caste Darn Rowan were still wet and blazing in the sun like 
fire. 
Emhyr approached the balustrade. The girl, according to court etiquette kept one step 
behind him. With an impatient gesture, he beckoned her to come closer. 
The Emperor was silent for a long time, he leaned with both hands on the railing, staring 
out at the hills and the evergreen yews that grew on them. Clearly distinguishable from the 
white rocky limestone recesses. Below them the river gleamed lick a silver river winding 
through the gorge. 
The wind brought the scent of spring. 

'I seldom come here,' Emhyr said. The girl remained silent. 
'I seldom come here,' he repeated, turning away. 'It is a beautiful and peaceful place. 
Beautiful surroundings... Do you agree?' 
'Yes... Imperial Majesty.' 
'You can smell spring in the air. Have you noticed?' 
'Yes, Imperial Majesty.' 
From the lower courtyard they heard a noisy clatter disturbed by singing and the ringing 
of horseshoes. The escort, which had already received the order to depart, were in a hurry to 
get ready to leave. Emhyr remembered that among the guards was one who sang. Often 
regardless of the circumstances. 
 
Look down on me regretfully 
Eyes of azure 
And give me graciously 
Your charms 
 
Remember me regretfully 
In the dark night-time 
Do not deny me graciously 
The desire that dwells within you 
 
'A beautiful ballad,' he said thoughtfully, passing his fingers over his heavy gold, 
imperial chain. 
'Beautiful. Imperial Majesty.' 
Vattier assures me that he is already on Vilgefortz's trail. That locating him will be a 
matter of days, weeks at most. The heads of traitors will fall and the true Ciri, Princess of 
Cintra will be delivered to Nilfgaard. 
And before the genuine Cirilla, Princess of Cintra comes to Nilfgaard, I will have to do 
something with the double. 
'Lift up your head.' 
She obeyed. 
'Do you have any wishes?' he asked sternly. 'Requests? Complaints?' 
'No, Imperial Majesty, I do not.' 
'Really? That's interesting. No, but then I cannot command that you had. Raise your 
head, as befits a princess. Stella taught you courtly manners?' 
'Yes, Imperial Majesty.' 
 In fact, he thought, they trained her really well. Rience first and then Stella. They taught 
her the role – certainly under threat of torture and death. They warned her that the part that 
she would have to play before a ruthless and unforgiving audience. Before the terrible Emhyr 
var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard. 
'What is your name?' he asked sharply. 
'Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.' 
'Your real name.' 
'Cirilla Fiona...' 
'Do not try my patience. Name!' 
'Cirilla...' the girl's voice broke like a reed stalk. 'Fiona...' 
'Enough, by the Great Sun,' he said through clenched teeth, 'Enough!' 
In a breach of etiquette, she sniffed loudly. Her lips trembled but etiquette did not forbid 
it. 

'Calm down,' he ordered, albeit in a low voice, almost soft. 'What do you fear? Are you 
ashamed of your own name? Are you afraid to tell me? Does it raise unpleasant memories? I 
only ask because I would like to address you by your real name. But I must know what it is.' 
'It's nothing,' she said, her big eyes suddenly sparkled like emerald in the glow of 
candles. 'Because it is a bland name, Imperial Majesty. A person who wears it is a nobody. 
As long as I'm Cirilla Fiona, I mean something... As long as...' 
Her voice stuck in her throat so rapidly that she instinctively raised her hands to her neck, 
as if what she had on was not a necklace, but a choking garrotte. Emhyr continued to measure 
her with his eyes, still full of praise for Stella Congreve. At the same time he also felt anger. 
Unfounded anger and therefore even more terrible. 
What I do want from this child, he thought, feeling the anger rising in him, as it boiled 
and seethed like soup in a cauldron. What I do want with this child whose... 
'Know that I had nothing to do with your kidnapping girl,' he said sharply. 'I had nothing 
to do with your kidnapping. I gave no such orders. I was fooled...' 
He was angry with himself, aware that he was making a mistake. He should have ended 
this conversation long ago, ended it with grace, with power, menacing, like an emperor. It 
was necessary to forget about this girl with the green eyes. The girl did not exist. She was a 
double. An imitation. She did not even have a name. She was nobody. The emperor does not 
ask for forgiveness, does not apologise to someone who... 
'Forgive me,' he said, the words sounded strange, unpleasantly sticking to his lips. 'I 
made a mistake. Yes, it's true, I am guilty of what happened to you. Guilty. But i give you 
my word that you will come to no danger, no injustice, no harm, no threat. Do not be afraid.' 
'I'm not afraid,' she lifted her head and etiquette notwithstanding meet his gaze. Emhyr 
flinched, struck by the honesty and trust in her eyes. He immediately straightened, the proud 
and noble emperor once more. 
'Ask of me what you want.' 
 She looked at him again, and he involuntarily recalled countless time when he had 
bought in this way the peace of mind for the damage of his meanness. He secretly enjoyed 
selfishly paying the off so cheaply. 
'Ask of me what you want,' he repeated and by the fact that he was tired, his voice 
became a little more human. 'I will fulfil your every wish.' 
Do not look at me, he thought. I cannot bear that look. People are apparently afraid to 
look at me. What do I have to fear? 
 Fuck Vattier and his reasons of state. If she asks for it, I'll take her home to where she 
was abducted. Perhaps in a golden coach with six horses. She simply has to ask. 
'Ask of me what you want,' he repeated. 
'I thank you, Imperial Majesty,' said the girl, lowering her eyes. 'His Imperial Majesty is 
very noble and generous. If i could ask for anything...' 
'Speak.' 
'I want to stay here. Here at Darn Rowan. At the home of Lady Stella.' 
He was not surprised. He sensed something. 
Tact prevented him from asking the questions that would be humiliating to them both. 
'I gave my word,' he said coldly. 'My will be done.' 
'Thank you, Your Majesty.' 
'I gave my word,' he repeated, 'and I will honour it. However, I think you chose wrong. 
You did not choose that which you desire. If you change your mind...' 
'I will not change,' she said when it was clear that the emperor was not going to finish. 
'Why would I change my mind? I have chosen Lady Stella, I have chosen things that I have 
experienced in my life so little... A house, warmth, kindness... Love. You cannot make a 
mistake when choosing something like that.' 

Poor, naive, little thing, thought Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep 
Morvudd – The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. It is such desires that 
are filled with the most terrible mistakes. 
But something – perhaps long-forgotten memories, prevent the Emperor from saying it 
out loud. 
 
*** 
 
'Interesting,' Nimue said, when she heard the story. A very interesting dream. Were there 
any others?' 
'Bah!' Condwiramurs cut the top off of the boiled egg with a knife. 'My head is still 
spinning after that parade! But this is normal. The first night in a new place always produces 
chaotic dreams. Do you know, Nimue for us, it is claimed that our talent lies in the fact that 
we have dreamlike visions. We do not use hypnosis or a trance; our visions are no different 
from other people's dreams, in intensity, or abundance or content. Unlike us, and this is what 
our talent determines. We remember our dreams. Rarely do we forget what we dream of.' 
'Because you have atypical and typical activities in your endocrine glands,' said the Lade 
of the Lake. 'Your dreams are, and I'm trivialising a bit, nothing more than a body dedicated 
to endorphins. Like most innate magical talents, yours is also prosaically organic in origin. 
But why am I explaining something that you yourself already know. Do you remember any 
more dreams?' 
'A young boy,' Condwiramurs frowned, 'travelling with a pouch over his shoulder 
through fields. It is early spring, the fields are empty. Willows... along the edges of the road. 
Willows bent, hollow and deformed... and bare, yet still with leaves. The boy walks and looks 
around. It is dark. In the sky there are stars. One of them is moving. It is a comet. A reddish, 
flickering spark, diagonally crossing the sky...' 
'Good,' Nimue rejoiced. 'While I have no idea about who you were dreaming of, I can 
pinpoint the date. The Red Comet was visible for only six days in the spring of the year of the 
Peace of Cintra. More specifically, in the first days of March. In other dreams do you 
experience time stamps?' 
'My dreams,' Condwiramurs snorted, taking solace in her egg, 'are not an agricultural 
calendar. They do not have dated subtitles. But for the record, I also dreamed of the Battle of 
Brenna, probably because I looked for a time at the canvas by Nicholas Certosy in your 
gallery. And the date for the Battle of Brenna is also known. It was also in the same year as 
the comet, unless I am mistaken.' 
'No, you are not wrong. Was there something special about the dream of the battle?' 
'No. A chaos of horses, people and weapons. People screamed and killed. Someone, 
surely a mad man, shrieked – "The Eagles! The Eagles!"' 
'What else? You said that there was a whole parade of dreams.' 
'I do not remember...' Condwiramurs paused. 
Nimue smiled. 
'Well,' the adept said, wincing hard, preventing the Lady of the Lake from delivering any 
mocking comments. 'Yes, sometimes I forget. Nobody is perfect. I repeat, My dreams are 
visions, not some organised shelves in a library...' 
'I know,' Nimue said. 'We are not doing this to test your abilities as a dreamer, we are 
analysing the legend. The riddles and blank spaces. It goes pretty well for us, as in the first 
dream you've discovered who was the girl in the portrait, The double of Ciri who Vilgefortz 
attempted to deceive Emperor Emhyr...' 

She stopped because into the kitchen came the Fisher King. He bowed, muttered and 
pulled out a loaf of bread, a bottle and a package wrapped in cloth from the cupboard. Then 
he turned to leave, not forgetting to bow and grunt. 
'He is lame,' Nimue said with ill-concealed sympathy. 'He was seriously wounded in a 
hunt with a wild boar which gored his leg. That's why he spends so much time on the boat. 
With the oars and fishing he forgets about his injures. He is a very decent and good man. And 
I...' 
Condwiramurs remained politely silent. 
'I need a man,' said the little sorceress impartially. 
I also, thought the adept. The devil, as soon as I return to the Academy, I'll let someone 
seduce me. Celibacy is food, but not for longer than one semester. 
Nimue snorted. 
'If you've finished eating and dreaming, let's go to the library.' 
 
*** 
 
'Let's get back to your dream.' 
Nimue opened a folder, she turned and took out several sheets of sepia wash drawings. 
Condwiramurs immediately recognised the captured scene. 
'The audience at Loc Grim?' 
 'Of course. The double is present in the imperial palace. Emhyr pretending that he has 
been deceived and putting a good face on things. Here, look, the ambassadors of the Northern 
Kingdoms, for who his performance is played. And here we see the Nilfgaardian dukes. They 
feel humiliated, the emperor has rejected their noble daughters and so despised their offers of 
alliances. They stand aside, whispering, planning revenge, conspiracy, murder. The double 
stands before the throne with her head bowed. The artist has done this to emphasize her 
mystique, even her features are hidden under the veil on her face. This is basically everything 
we know about the false Ciri. No version of the legend mentions what happened to her later.' 
'It's not hard to imagine,' Condwiramurs said sadly, 'that fate was not kind to the girl. 
When Emhyr got the original, and we all know that he acquired her, he got rid of the forgery. 
In the dream I sensed no tragedy, and in principle I should have felt something if... On the 
other hand, what I see in dreams is not necessarily the real truth. As with any person, my 
dreams reflect my desire, longing... And fears.' 
'I know.' 
 
*** 
 
The discussed until lunchtime, looking through folders and bundles of prints. The fishing 
must have been good to the Fisher King because the lunch was grilled salmon. For dinner, 
too. 
That night, Condwiramurs slept poorly. She had eaten too much. 
She did not dream of anything. She was a little angry and embarrassed by it, but Nimue 
showed no concern. 
'We have time,' she said. 'Before us are many more nights.' 
 
*** 
 
The tower of Inis Vitre had several bathrooms, truly luxurious, plush, lined with marble 
and gleaming with brass, it was heated by pipes whose furnace was located somewhere in the 
basement. Condwiramurs could laze in the bath for hours, but today she met Nimue in the 

sauna, a small log cabin with a landing that went out into the lake. They sat together on a 
bench in the steam rising from red-hot stones washed down with water, flicking themselves 
with birch brushes. Salty sweat ran down into their eyes. 
'If I understand correctly,' Condwiramurs wiped her face, 'the end result of my 
experience on Inis Vitre should be to answer all the riddles and blank spaces in the legend of 
the Sorceress and the Witcher?' 
'You are correct.' 
'By day, by examining images and discussions, it should prepare me for the night, when I 
have the power to dream, about that event that is now completely forgotten and what really 
happened? ' 
This time Nimue did not consider it necessary to confirm this. She got up and poured 
water from a bucket onto the stones. The hot steam took their breath away for a moment. The 
rest of the bucket of water, Nimue poured on herself. Condwiramurs admired her figure. 
Thought tiny, the sorceress was built extraordinarily proportionately. The body and supple 
skin of the sorceress could envy many a young girl. Condwiramurs was only twenty-four and 
she envied her. 
'But even if I dream of something,' she continued, wiping her sweaty face again, 'how 
can I be sure that what I dreamed was the true version? I certainly do not know...' 
'Let's halt this discussion for a while,' cut off Nimue. 'We go out. I'm already tired of 
sitting in this slow cooker. Let's refresh. And then we'll talk.' 
As it was part of the ritual. They ran out of the sauna, their bare feet pattering on the 
boards of the landing and with a loud cry jumped into the cold water. Once they had dipped, 
they swam to the landing and wrung out their hair. 
 The Fisher King, alarmed by the splashing and yelling, looked back from his boat, he 
shaded his eyes with his hand, then immediately turned around and devoted himself to his 
fishing tackle. Condwiramurs considered this behaviour offensive and reprehensible. Her 
opinion of the Fisher King had greatly increased when she noticed the time that he did not 
spend fishing he spent reading. He walked with a book, even to the bathroom, and it was 
nothing less than Speculum Aureum, a work both profound and intellectually challenging. So 
if it was true that in her early days on Inis Vitre, Condwiramurs was somewhat astonished by 
the inclinations of Nimue, they had now stopped. It was clear that the Fisher King was an 
uncouth lout only in appearance. Apparently, such behaviour was considered a secure mask. 
Nevertheless, thought Condwiramurs, it is an unforgivable insult and an affront turning 
towards this rods and bait when there were two women parading naked, with bodies worthy 
of nymphs, from which the eyes should not be able to break away. 
'If I dream something,' she returned to the subject at hand as she wiped her breasts with 
a towel, 'what guarantee do we have that it is the true version? I know all the literary versions 
of the legend, from Dandelion's Half a Century of Poetry, to Andre Ravix's Lady of the 
Lake. I know all of Reverend Jarre's, various scientific treatises on the popular editions that I 
will not even mention. All of these readings have left a trace, had an effect, I am not able to 
eliminate this from my dreams. Is there a chance to break through the fiction to dream the 
truth?' 
'There is.' 
'How high?' 
'The same as,' Nimue nodded towards the boat on the lake, 'which the Fisher King has. 
You see how he tirelessly checks his hooks. They anchor weeds, roots, submerged stumps, 
trunks, old shoes and the drowned devil knows what else. But from time to time he catches 
something.' 
'So happy fishing then,' Condwiramurs sighed and began to dress. 'Let us set the bait and 
start fishing. Look for the real version of the legend inside the upholstery and lining of an old 

trunk and hope to find a false bottom. And what if there is no false bottom? With all due 
respect, Nimue, but we are not the first in this fishery. What are the chances that some details 
escaped the attention of historians and the researchers who fished in front of us? Do we even 
have a minnow left?' 
 'They left,' Nimue said with conviction, combing her hair, 'Blank spaces filled with 
rhetoric and fabrications. Or wrapped in silence.' 
'Like what?' 
'For example, the witcher's winter stay in Toussaint. All version of the legend dispose of 
this episode with a short sentence: "The heroes spent the winter in Toussaint." Even 
Dandelion, who devoted two chapters to his adventures in the Duchy, is surprising enigmatic 
in terms of the witcher. Is it not worth it to find out what happened this winter? After 
escaping from Belhaven, and meeting with the elf Avallac'h in the underground complex of 
Tir na Bea Arainne? After the skirmish in Caed Myrkvid and the adventure of the Druids? 
What did the witcher do in Toussaint from October through to January?' 
'What did he do? Hibernated!' snorted the adept. 'Before the spring thaw, he would not 
be able to cross the mountain passes, and so he spent the winter bored. It is not surprising that 
later writers relieved piece of boredom with a terse: "Winter passed by." But if you need, I'll 
try to dream something. Do we have a picture or a drawing?' 
Nimue smiled. 
'We have lots of pictures.' 
 
*** 
 
 The rock painting represented a hunting scene. Lean casual strokes depicted little men 
carrying bows and spears hunting a large buffalo. The buffalo was purple, striped like a tiger 
and above its curved horns hung something that resembled a dragonfly. 
'This,' Regis said nodding his head, 'is the work of the elf Avallac'h. The elf that knew 
much.' 
'Yes,' Geralt confirmed dryly. 'This is his painting.' 
'The problem is that we have thoroughly explored the caves and there is no trace of either 
elves or any other creatures you mentioned.' 
'They were here. Now they are hiding. Or gone.' 
'This is an indisputable fact. Do not forget, you were only awarded the audience through 
the intercession of the flaminica. Apparently it was concluded that one hearing was enough. 
After the flaminica categorically refused to cooperate, I really do not know what else you can 
do. We have been wandering around these caves all day. I'm afraid there is no point' 
'Me, too,' said the witcher bitterly. 'I cannot resist such an impression. I've never 
understood the elves. But at least now I know why most human have no sympathy for elves. 
Because it is hard to shake the feeling that they are mocking us. In everything that they do, 
what they say, what they think, elves make a mockery of us and scoff.' 
'The anthropomorphism is speaking through you.' 
'Maybe a little. But the impression remains.' 
'What do we do?' 
 'Return to Caed Myrkvid, to see Cahir, who no doubt has had his scalp wound healed by 
the Druids. Then we get on the horses and take full advantage of the invitation of Countess 
Anna Henrietta . Do not look at me like that vampire, Milva has broken ribs, Cahir a broken 
head, and rest in Toussaint will benefit both of them. And we will also have to remove 
Dandelion from the mess he has gotten into, because I fear he has gotten into a good one.' 
'Well,' sighed Regis. 'Have it your way. I'll have to avoid mirrors and dogs and will have 
to beware of sorcerers and telepaths... And if I'm still exposed, I'm counting on you.' 

'You can count on me,' Geralt said seriously. 'I'm not in the habit of leaving a friend in 
need.' 
The vampire smile and because they were alone, he did not hid his fangs. 
'Friend?' 
'The anthropomorphism speaks through my mouth. Come on, let's get out of this cave, 
my friend. Because here we will find only rheumatism.' 
'Probably. Unless... Geralt? From what you saw, the Elven necropolis of Tir na Bea 
Arainne is behind this wall. We could get there if... you know. If we broke through. Have you 
thought about this?' 
'No. I had not thought of it.' 
 
*** 
 
The Fisher King had again prospered because there was lake trout for dinner again. The 
fish was so delicious that the lesson went out the window. Again Condwiramurs ate too 
much. 
 
*** 
 
 Condwiramurs belched. It is time to sleep, she though, when she caught herself for the 
second time mechanically turning the pages of a book without perceiving the content. It is 
time to dream. 
She yawned and put down her book. She rearranged the pillows from a reading position 
to resting. With a spell she put out the lamp. The chamber was immediately plunged into 
darkness as thick as molasses. The heavy velour curtains were fully drawn, as the adept 
discovered, it is best to dream in total darkness. What to choose? She thought, stretching 
between the sheets. Go with the current and dream or try and anchor? 
 Despite their proud statements, Dreamers did not remember half of their prophetic 
dreams, a significant portion of them remained in the minds of the oneiromancers as 
gibberish images, changing colours and shapes like a kaleidoscope - a child's toy with 
mirrors and glass. If the dreamlike visions were stripped of all pretence of order and meaning, 
then they could safely ignore them. According to the rules: "If I do not remember it, it means, 
it was not worth remembering". In the jargon of the dreamers these dreams are called 
"lemons". 
Worse and a somewhat embarrassing affair are "ghost" dreams, from which the dreamer 
only remembers fragments, and very short snippets of events, after which the next morning is 
left only a vague feeling of a messaged received. If the "ghost" is repeated several times, it is 
certain that it is a dream which is important for some reason. Then the dreamer, through 
concentration and autosuggestion tries to force the dream again, this time a more specific 
"ghost". The best result are to force oneself to dream again immediately after waking up – 
called "hooking". If the dream does not produce a "hook" they try and produce a vision 
during one of the following session by concentration and meditation prior to going to sleep. 
Such pressure programming is called "anchoring". 
 After twelve nights on the island, Condwiramurs already had three lists of dreams. There 
was a list worthy of pride, a list of "ghosts" that she had "hooked" or "anchored" 
successfully. Among them there was the dream of the rebellion on the Island of Thanedd and 
the journey of the witcher and his companions in a blizzard in the pass of Malheur, and the 
spring downpours softening the roads in the Sudduth valley. There was also a list that Nimue 
had recognised as a list of failures, dreams that despite all their efforts remained an enigma. 
And there was also a working list, a list of dreams waiting their turn. 

And there was a dream, strange but very nice that was coming back in bits and pieces in 
elusive sounds and silky touches. 
A nice, pleasant dream. 
Well, thought Condwiramurs, closing her eyes. Let it be. 
 
*** 
 
 'I think I know what the witcher did during the winter in Toussaint.' 
'Well, well,' Nimue looked over the edge of the leather-bound grimoire that she was 
reading. 'So you finally dreamed something?' 
'Of course' Condwiramurs said boastfully, 'I dreamed! Of the Witcher Geralt and a 
woman with short, black hair and green eyes. I do not know who it could be. Maybe this 
Countess, Dandelion writes about in his memoirs?' 
'You must not have read carefully,' the sorceress said somewhat coolly. 'Dandelion 
described Countess Anareitta in detail and all sources confirm that her hair was, quote 
"Chestnut coloured and truly shining like a halo of gold."' 
'So it was not her,' admitted the adept. 'My woman had black hair. Like coal. And the 
dream was... hummm... interesting.' 
'I'm eagerly listening.' 
'They were talking together. But it was not an ordinary conversation.' 
'What was so strange?' 
'Most of the time her legs where on his shoulders.' 
 
*** 
 
'Tell me, Geralt, do you believe in love at first sight?' 
'Do you?' 
'I believe.' 
'Now I know why we are together. Opposites attract.' 
'Do not be cynical.' 
'Why? Cynicism reportedly shows intelligence.' 
'That's not true. Cynicism, for all its aura of pseudo intelligence is disgustingly 
hypocritical and insincere. While we're at it... Tell me, withcer, what do you most love about 
me?' 
'This.' 
'You go from cynicism to triviality and banality. Try again.' 
 'What I most love about you is your reason, your intelligence and inner depth, your 
independence and freedom, your...' 
'I do not understand where you get so much sarcasm.' 
'It was not sarcasm, it was a joke.' 
'I cannot stand such jokes. Especially at the wrong time. Everything, my dear, has its 
time, and under the sky all are assigned their time. There is a time to be silent and a time to 
talk, a time to weep and a time to laugh, time to sow and a time to pick, sorry, collect, a time 
for jokes and a time for seriousness...' 
'A time to touch and a time to refrain?' 
'Oh, do not take it so seriously! Assume instead that it is a time for compliments. Loving 
without the compliments becomes just mindless activities to satisfy physical needs. Tell me, 
compliments!' 
'From the Buina to the Yaruga, there is no one with such a beautiful ass as yours.' 

'Now you go and compare me to barbaric rivers from the north that I do not know. 
Leaving aside the quality of your metaphor, could you have not said from the Velda to the 
Alba? Or from the Alba to Sansretour?' 
'I've never been to the Alba. I try to avoid forms of flirting that I cannot back up with 
factual experience.' 
'Oh, really? So I guess that you have seen and experienced so many asses, that you are 
able to judge? What, white-haired one? How many women have you had before me? Well? I 
asked you a question, witcher! Put away those hand, you will not escape having to answer. 
How many women did you have before me?' 
'None. You're the first.' 
'Finally!' 
 
*** 
 
Nimue had already spent a long time contemplating a picture that appeared in a subtle 
chiaroscuro of ten women sitting around a table. 
'Too bad we do not know that they really looked like.' She said at last. 
'The great teachers?' Condwiramurs snorted. 'there are dozens of portraits! Only in 
Aretuza itself...' 
'I said: really.' Interrupted Nimue. 'I did not mean embellished imaginations based on 
other embellished imaginations. Do not forget, there was a time of destruction of the images 
of sorceresses. And the same of sorceresses. Then came the era of propaganda, the teachers 
had to build up the appearance of respect, admiration and reverent fear. Then from the 
reunion of the Lodge came oaths and convents, pictures and paintings recording those present 
at the table were of ten wonderful and alluring women. But there are no authentic portraits. 
Except for two. The portrait of Margarita Laux-Antille which hangs in Aretuza, on the island 
of Thanedd and was by a miracle saved from fire. And a picture of Sile de Tansarville in 
Ensenada in the palace of Lan Exeter.' 
'And what of Francesca Findabair's image by an unknown elvish painter, hanging in the 
gallery in Vengerberg?' 
'A fake. When the Gate opened and the elves left, they took with them or destroyed all 
their works of art and left not a single image. We do not know if the Daisy of the Valley was 
really as beautiful as they say. We do not know the appearance of Ida Emean. And the images 
of the Sorceress of Nilfgaard were destroyed thoroughly and systematically, we have no idea 
of the true appearance of Assire car Anahid or Fringilla Vigo.' 
'Let us assume,' sighed Condwiramurs, 'that they looked as they were later portrayed. 
Dignified, noble, good, wise, honest and generous. And beautiful, dazzlingly beautiful... Let 
us assume that. Then it is somehow easier to live.' 
 
*** 
 
The daily tasks on Inis Vitre gradually fell into a dull routine. The analyst of dreams 
started after breakfast and usually lasted until noon. Before lunch, Condwiramurs went for a 
walk, but walks soon became boring. No wonder, in an hour it was possible to circle the 
island twice and look at things as interesting as rocks, dwarf pines, sand, clams and sea gulls. 
After lunch and a long nap, they began discussions, reviewing books, scrolls and 
manuscripts, viewing pictures, images and maps. And long, protracted disputes in the night 
on the relationship between legend and truth. 
And then at night came the dreams. Different dreams. Celibacy began to be noticed. 
Instead of dreams of the enigma of the legend of the withcer, Condwiramurs dreamed of the 

Fisher King in a variety of situations from the non-erotic to the extremely erotic. In the 
extremely non-erotic dreams the Fisher King dragged her behind the boat tied to a rope. He 
rowed slowly and lazily, so she sank into the lake, swallowing water and she felt a terrible 
fear, because she felt something rising from the bottom, something huge and hungry, 
something that wanted to swallow the bait, which she was. When it seemed the something 
was about to catch her, the Fisher King pulled powerfully on the oars, the rope tighten and 
she was pulled away from the jaws of the unseen predator. She felt like she couldn't breathe, 
then she awoke. 
In her undoubtedly erotic dreams she was kneeling on the rickety boat, clinging to the rail 
and the Fisher King held her around the neck from behind as he fucked her enthusiastically, 
grunting, spitting and growling the whole time. Apart from the physical pleasure, 
Condwiramurs felt an apprehension that chilled her bowels: what if Nimue caught them? 
Suddenly in the water of the lake she saw the wobbling, threatening face of the little 
sorceress... she woke up, drenched in sweat. 
She got up, opened the window and felt the cool night air, and saw the moonlight falling 
on the mist from the lake. 
And then she dreamed on. 
 
*** 
 
The tower of Inis Vitre had a balcony that overlooked the lake. At first Condwiramurs 
paid it no attention, but over time she had reason to ponder. The balcony was special because 
it was inaccessible. It was impossible to get to it from any room she knew. 
Aware that the home of the sorceress cannot go with such a secret anomaly, 
Condwiramurs did not ask questions. Even when taking a stroll around the lake she saw 
Nimue watching. Apparently in was only inaccessible to those unauthorised and uninvited. 
She was a little angry because it was considered rude but pretended that she did not see 
anything. 
But it did not take long to before the mystery was solved. 
It was after a series of dreams, caused by Wilma Wessely's watercolours. The author was 
apparently fascinated by the adventures of Ciri and the Tower of the Swallow, because all of 
her works had been devoted to them. 
'I've had weird dreams,' she complained one morning. '...I dream images. Not scenes, no 
scenes, but pictures. Ciri and a tower... A still picture.' 
 'And nothing more? Nothing except the visual experience?' 
Nimue, of course, knew that as a capable dreamer, like Condwiramurs used all her senses, 
she doesn't just receive the dream through her eyes like most people, but also through 
hearing, touch, smell – and even taste. 
'Nothing,' said the adept. 'Just...' 
'Well?' 
'A thought. A stubborn thought. In this tower, I'm not a lady, but a prisoner.' 
'Come with me.' 
As Condwiramurs had guessed, access to the balcony was only possible going through the 
private chambers of the sorceress. Clean rooms that were meticulously neat and fragrant 
smelling of sandalwood, myrrh, lavender and mothballs. It was necessary to use a small 
secret door and a spiral staircase leading down. 
Then they came to where they had to go. 
The chamber, in contrast to the other rooms, did not have wood panelling on the walls, or 
tapestries, it was only whitewashed so it was very light. Even more clear light, because there 

was a huge triple window, or rather a glass door, which led directly to the balcony 
overhanging the lake. 
The only furniture in the room were two chairs, a huge oval framed mirror and a sort of 
mahogany stand with a horizontal framework where a tapestry had been hung. The tapestry 
measured about five feet seven and reached its fringes to the floor. 
The tapestry showed a rocky bluff overlooking a mountain lake. A castle was embedded 
in the cliff that seemed to be part of the stone wall. Condwiramurs knew the castle well, she 
had seen it in many illustrations. 
'Vilgefortz's citadel, where he imprisoned Yennefer. Where the legend ended.' 
'Yes,' Nimue said, apparently indifferent. 'That is where the legend ended, at least in the 
traditional versions. We know these versions, so it seems to up that this is the ending. Ciri 
escaped from the Tower of the Swallow, were, as you dreamed, she was being held as a 
prisoner. When she realised what they wanted to do, she ran away. The legend give many 
versions of this escape...' 
'I,' interrupted the adept,' liked the best version, we the objects are thrown behind her. A 
comb, and apple and a handkerchief. But...' 
 'Condwiramurs.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
'As I said, there are many versions of the flight. But it still remains unclear how Ciri went 
directly from the Tower to the Swallow to Vilgefortz's castle. If you cannot dream of the 
Tower of the Swallow, then try and dream of the castle. Look carefully at the tapestry... Are 
you listening?' 
'This mirror... It's magic, right?' 
'No. I squeeze pimples in front of it.' 
'Sorry.' 
'It is a mirror of Hartmann,' Nimue said, seeing the adept's wrinkled nose and angry 
gesture. 'You may want to look. But be careful, please.' 
'Is it true,' Condwiramurs asked, her voice trembling with excitement, 'that with a mirror 
of Hartmann you can move to others...' 
'Worlds?' It is. But not immediately, not without long preparation, exercise, mediation 
and many other things. When I urged caution, I was thinking of something else.' 
'What?' 
'The mirror of Hartmann works in both directions. It is always possible someone or 
something may come out.' 
 
*** 
 
'Do you know, Nimue... When I look at the tapestry...' 
'Did you dream last night?' 
'I dreamed. But strangely. A bird's eye view. I was a bird... I saw the castle from outside. 
I could not get inside, something was guarding the entrance.' 
'Look at the tapestry,' Nimue ordered. 'Look at the citadel. Look carefully, focus your 
attention to every detail. Concentrate hard, record this image in your memory. I want you, if 
you can get there in the dream, to go inside. It is important that you enter.' 
 
*** 
 
Outside, beyond the castle walls, raged a blizzard but inside, fuelled by thick logs a fire 
blazed. Yennefer revelled in the warmth. Her current cell was indeed better than the wet cell, 
in which she had spent the last two months, but even so, her teeth chattered with the cold. 

While imprisoned she had lost track of time, they were in no hurry to inform her of the date, 
but she was certain it was winter, in December, maybe January. 
'Eat, Yennefer,' Vilgefortz said. 'Do not hesitate.' 
The sorceress did not allow for embarrassment or accident. She ate slowly only because 
her barely healed fingers were stiff and awkward and it was difficult to hold the cutlery. And 
she would not eat with her hands, she was eager to show her superiority to Vilgefortz and the 
rest of the guests of the sorcerer. She knew none of them. 
'It is with great regret I must inform you,' said Vilgefortz, his fingers caressing the stem 
of his cup, 'that Ciri, your ward, has departed from this world. You can only blame yourself, 
Yennefer. And your foolish stubbornness.' 
One of the guests, a short man with dark hair, sneezed loudly, wiping snot on a cambric 
handkerchief. His nose was red, swollen and undeniably congested. 
'To your health,' Yennefer said, not upset at all by Vilgefortz angry words. 'How did you 
come by such a terrible cold, noble sir? Did you stand in a draft after a bath?' 
Another guest, an older, taller, thin man, with unnaturally pale eyes, laughed. The man 
with the cold, though his face flushed with anger, thanked the sorceress with a short bow and 
a short, nasal response. It was not short enough to hide the Nilfgaardian accent. 
Vilgefortz turned to face her. He no longer wore on his head the golden structure or the 
glass lens over his eye socket, but it looked even worse than in the summer, when she saw 
him maimed for the first time. The left eyeball had regenerated sufficiently, but was much 
smaller than the right. The appearance was breath-taking. 
'You, Yennefer,' he drawled, 'probably think I'm lying to deceive you. Why would I? 
The report of the girl's death has crushed me like you, if not more. After all I had far-
reaching plans for her, which would decide about my future. Ciri is dead and now my plans 
have collapsed.' 
'Good,' Yennefer, barely keeping the knife in your fingers, clumsily cut into her second 
course of stuffed pork chop. 
'On the contrary,' continued the sorcerer, 'to you Ciri was only a silly sentiment, 
consisting of equal parts of the penalty of your infertility and your guilt. Yes, yes, Yennefer, a 
sentiment of guilt! After you had actively participated in genetic experiments, by which Ciri 
came into the world. Incidentally the experiment failed because the experimenters lacked 
knowledge.' 
Yennefer saluted him in silence, praying that the cup would not slip from her fingers. She 
slowly came to the conclusion that at least two of them would be stiff for a long time. Maybe 
permanently. 
Vilgefortz snorted at her gesture. 
'It's too late,' he said through gritted teeth, 'you have to know, Yennefer, I have enough 
knowledge. And if I had this girl, I would use this knowledge. In fact, you have nothing to 
regret, even though you are dry and barren as a desert, I wanted to strengthen the weak 
maternal instinct and give you not only a daughter, but even a grandchild. Or at least an 
ersatz grandchild. 
Yennefer snorted dismissively, although inside she was boiling with rage. 
'I'm sorry to spoil your good humour, my dear,' said the wizard coldly. 'Because I have 
the sad news that the witcher, Geralt of Rivia is also dead. Yes, Yes, the same witcher Geralt, 
with whom, as with Ciri, you associated your surrogate feelings, foolish, embarrassing and 
nauseating to the stomach. Know Yennefer that our dear friend, the witcher, said goodbye to 
the world in a truly fiery spectacular. On this occasion, you should not have any remorse. For 
the witcher's death, you are not guilty to even the smallest degree. All the credit belongs to 
me. Taste the candied pears, they are really delicious.' 
Yennefer's violet eyes blazed with hatred. 

Vilgefortz laughed. 
'Such is your will,' he said, 'Indeed, if not for your dimeritium bracelets, your eyes would 
have burned me to ashes. But since the dimeritium is working, you cannot burn me, only 
look.' 
The man with the cold, sneezed, blew his nose and coughed until there were tears in his 
eyes. The tall man looked at her with his unpleasant fish eyes. 
'And where is Mister Rience?' Yennefer asked, emphasizing the words. 'Mister Rience, 
who has promised to do so much to me. And where is Mister Schirru, who never failed to hit 
or kick me? And why does my guard, who until recently, were violent and vulgar brutes, 
started to behave in timid reverence? No, do not answer, Vilgefortz. I think I know. What you 
told me is a lie. You have lost Ciri and Geralt escaped, while organising a bloodbath for your 
minions. Now what? Your plans have collapsed, turned to dust and you yourself have 
recognised that your dreams of power have faded like smoke. And the sorceresses and 
Dijkstra draw closer and closer. It is not without reason and not out of pity that you have 
stopped torturing me. And Emperor Emhyr tightens his network, and this is turning out to be 
very, very bad. Ess a tearth, me tiarn? A'pleine a cales, ellea?' 
'I understand elder speech,' said the Nilfgaardian with the cold. 'And my name is Stefan 
Skellen. And I do not have full pants. Rather, I believe I am in a considerably better situation 
that you, Lady Yennefer.' 
After the speech he took a breath, coughed again and blew his nose into his soaked 
handkerchief. Vilgefortz slapped the table with his opened hand. 
'No more games,' Vilgefortz said, rolling his miniature macabre eye. 'Know Yennefer 
that you are no longer needed by me. In fact, I should put you in a sack and drown you in the 
lake, but I tend to draw on such methods with the greatest distaste. Until such a time 
circumstances permit me or force me to another decision, you will remain isolated. But I 
warn you – don't cause me any problems. If you try to go on a hunger strike again, I will no 
longer waste time trying to feed you through a tube. I will simply let you starve. And if you 
try and escape, the guard's orders are clear. And now, farewell. Unless you haven't satisfied 
yourself...' 
'No,' Yennefer stood up and crumpled her napkin on the table. 'Maybe it was something 
I ate, but the company has taken away my appetite. Goodbye, gentlemen.' 
Stefan Skellen sneezed and coughed. The tall man with the pale eyes measured her with 
anger and a sinister smile. Vilgefortz looked away. 
As usual, when being led from cell to cell, Yennefer tried to figure out when she was, to 
get some scrap of information that could help her plan her escape. And as usual, she was 
disappointed, the corridors down which she was led, had no windows, so there was no chance 
to see the surrounding countryside, or at least the sin in order to determine the cardinal points. 
Telepathy was prevented by the two heavy bracelets and a hoop around her neck, all of 
dimeritium, which effectively blocked any attempt to use magic. 
The chamber in which she was imprisoned, was as cold and bleak as a hermit's hut. 
Yennefer remembered, however, how happy she was when they had moved her here from the 
dungeon. From the basement, in whose bottom there was always a stinking pool of water, and 
the walls dripped with nitrate and salt. The basement where they fed her leftovers in which 
the rats tore the bits from her mangled fingers effortlessly. 
When, after about two months he removed the chain, took her from there and allowed her 
to change clothes and bathe, Yennefer was beside herself with joy. He took her to a small 
room where she it seemed to be the bedroom of a king and the slurry that was served, bird's 
nest soup, worth of an emperor's table. Then things cleared. After a while the soup became a 
nasty slop, the bed a hard cot and the room a prison. A narrow cold prison, in which in just 
four steps you would come to the other wall. 

Yennefer cursed, sighed and sat on the stool that was, apart from the cot, the only piece of 
furniture she had. 
He came in so quiet that she almost didn't hear him. 
'My name is Bonhart,' he said. 'I would be nice that you remember this name, witch. 
That you engrave it in your memory.' 
'Go fuck yourself, pig.' 
'I am a bounty hunter,' he growled. 'Three months ago, in September, I caught your little 
bastard in Ebbing – the famous Ciri, which you were talking about.' 
Yennefer listen carefully. September. Ebbing. Caught her. But she isn't here. Maybe he is 
lying? 
'The grey-haired witcher was trained at Kaer Morhen. I told her to fight in an arena, to 
kill people while people in the audience screamed. Slowly, slowly I turned her more into a 
beast. I taught her this role with whip, fist and boot. She learned for a long time. But then she 
escaped me, the green-eyed snake.' 
Yennefer imperceptibly sighed with relief 
'She escaped into another world. But we will meet again, I'm sure of it. You know, witch, 
the only thing I regret is that your lover, the witcher Geralt was burned at the stake. I wanted 
to give him a taste of my blade, damn mutant.' 
Yennefer snorted. 
'Listen, Bonhart, or whatever your name is. Do not make me laugh. The witcher was not 
brought up to heel. You cannot compare with him. You can only hunt puppies. Only small 
dogs.' 
'Look here, witch.' 
With a sharp movement he parted his shirt and pulled out a chain with three silver 
medallions hanging from it. One had the shape of a cat's head, the other an eagle or a griffin. 
The third she did not see exactly, but she thought it was a wolf. 
'Such trinkets,' she said, feigning indifference, 'you can buy at any fair.' 
'These are not from a fair.' 
'Whatever you say.' 
'It was once so,' hissed Bonhart, 'that good people were afraid of the witchers more than 
the monsters. Monsters, after all, sat in the woods and caves, however, witchers had the nerve 
to walk the streets, enter taverns, and hover near shrines, temples, schools and playgrounds. 
Decent people were offended, so they started looking for someone who could bring the 
insolent witchers to order. They found someone. Not easily or soon, not even close. But they 
found someone. You see, I have killed three. Not another mutant appeared in the area to upset 
the honest citizens. And if he appeared, I do to him what I did to the previous ones.' 
'Really,' Yennefer said, 'with a crossbow from around a corner? Or by poisoning?' 
Bonhart put the medallions back under his shirt and took a step towards her. 
'You insult me, witch.' 
'That's what I wanted.' 
'Oh, really? Now I will show you, witch, that I can compete with your Witcher lover in 
any field and even be better than him.' 
The guards standing at the door jumped upon hearing the crash, bang, howling and 
whimpering from the cell. And if the guards had ever happened in their life to hear a panther 
caught in trap, they would have sworn that the cell held a panther. 
Then the guards heard from the cell a terrible roar, like a wounded lion, which they had 
also never heard on watch and only ever seen on their coat of arms. They looked at each 
other. Shook their heads and entered. 
Yennefer sat in the corner of the room, among the remains of the stool. 

Her hair was dishevelled, her dress and shirt torn from top to bottom, her breasts rose 
sharply with her heavy breathing. Blood flowed from her nose, a bruise was quickly growing 
on her face, and there were scratches on her right arm. 
Bonhart was sitting in the other corner of the room, among bits of stool, holding his head 
in both hands. He too was bleeding from his nose, the blood colouring his moustaches a deep 
crimson. His face was marked by bloody grooves. Yennefer's barely healed fingers were a 
terrible weapon, but the dimeritium bracelets had some wonderfully sharp edges. 
In Bonhart's cheek, neatly along the cheek bone, embedded deeply was a fork, which 
Yennefer had silently stolen at dinner. 
'Only small dogs,' the sorceress gasped, trying to cover her breast with the remains of her 
dress, 'And stay away from the dogs, you are too weak for them, bastard.' 
She could not forgive herself for not getting him where she was aiming – his eye. But the 
target was moving, and besides, no one is perfect. 
Bonhart grunted, stood up, grabbed the fork and roared and reeled with pain. He swore 
horribly. 
Meanwhile, two more guards had entered the room. 
'Hey, you!' Bonhart roared, wiping blood from his face. 'Come here! Hold this whore on 
the floor, stretch open her legs and hold her!' 
The guards looked at each other, then at the ceiling. 
'You'd better leave, sir,' said one. 'There will be no hold or stretching here. It is not our 
job.' 
'Besides,' added the second in a whisper, 'we do not want to end up like Rience and 
Schirru.' 
 
*** 
 
Condwiramurs put down the paper which had an image of a prison cell. In the cell was a 
woman, sitting with her head down, shackled and chained to a stone wall. 
'They imprisoned her,' she muttered. 'while the witcher was in Toussaint with some dark 
haired lady.' 
'Are you condemning him?' Nimue asked sharply. 'Without knowing practically 
anything?' 
'No. I'm not condemning him, but...' 
'No buts about it. Be quiet, please.' 
 For some time they sat there silently and flipped through prints in a folder. 
'All the versions of the legend,' Condwiramurs identified one of the images, 'give this 
place as the end, the decisive clash between Good and Evil, the castle of Rhys-Rhun. All 
versions. Except for one.' 
'Except for one,' Nimue nodded. 'Apart from the little known anonymously version 
called The Black Book of Ellander.' 
'The Black Book states that the end of the legend took in Stygga castle.' 
'Correct. Some of the events presented in the book differ considerably from the canon.' 
'I wonder,' the adept raised her head, 'which of the two castles is in the picture? Which 
castle is on your tapestry? Which image is real?' 
'We will probably never know. The castle, where the legend ends, was destroyed and 
there remains no trace of it, which is confirmed by all versions of the legend, including the 
Book of Ellander. None of the proposed locations are convincing. We do not know and will 
probably never learn what the castle looked like and where it stood.' 
'But the truth...' 

'The historical truth is of no importance,' Nimue sharply interrupted. 'Remember that we 
do not know what Ciri really looked like. But here, in this picture drawn by Wilma Wessely, 
in a violent conversation with Avallac'h set against the background of macabre statues of 
children, is Ciri. There is no doubt.' 
'But,' Condwiramurs did not give up, 'your tapestry...' 
'Shows the castle where the legend ended.' 
There was a long silence. The rustling of pictures being turned. 
'I do not like,' Condwiramurs spoke, 'the version of the legend in the Black Book. It is 
so... so...' 
'Frighteningly realistic,' Nimue finished, shaking her head. 
 
*** 
 
Condwiramurs yawned and put down the book Half a Century of Poetry, the 
supplemented edition with the afterword by Professor Everett Denhoff Junior. She changed 
the position of the scattered cushions in the configuration for sleeping. She yawned, stretched 
and turned off the lamp. The chamber was drowned in darkness, brightened only by slivers of 
moonlight coming through the gap in the curtains. What to chose for this night, she thought, 
squirming between the sheets. Leave it to chance? Or try and anchor? 
After a moment she decided on the latter. 
There was a vague, recurring dream that she could not remember the end of, it got lost 
and disappeared among other dreams, like a thread that gets those among the colourful 
patterns in a fabric. A dream that escaped her memory, although it was stubbornly there. 
She fell asleep instantly. As soon as she closed her eyes, the dream came. 
There was a cloudless night sky, with a moon and stars. On the slopes of a snow-dusted 
hill she saw vineyards. The black angular outline of buildings with jagged walls and corner 
towers. There were two riders. Both entered the empty courtyard, both dismounted, both 
headed for the portal. However, into the dark hole, only one entered. 
The one with white hair. 
Condwiramurs moaned in her sleep, she thrashed on the bed. 
The white haired one followed stairs that went deep, deep underground. Walking down 
dark corridors, he pauses at regular intervals, lighting torches in their iron brackets. Shadows 
dance on the walls and ceiling. 
More halls, stairs, another corridor. A room, a domed cellar had barrels along the walls. 
Rubble, a heap of bricks. Then the corridor forks. In both forks there is darkness. The white-
haired one lights another torch. He pulls a sword from the sheath on his back. He hesitates, he 
doesn't know which for to follow. Finally he decides on the right. It is very dark and twisted, 
full of debris. 
Condwiramurs moaned in her sleep, a mortal fear seizes her. She knows that the path that 
the white-haired one has chosen, leads into danger. But at the same time she knows that the 
white-haired one is looking for danger. 
Because it is his profession. 
The adept stirs between the sheets, moaning. She is a dreamer, the dreamer is in a 
oneiromanic trance, suddenly she is able to predict what will happen in a moment. 
Watch out, she wants to scream but she knows that she will not be able to shout. Watch 
out, watch out! 
Be careful, witcher! 
 The monster attacked in the dark, from behind, silently, with malignancy. It materialised 
suddenly from the darkness like a fire that explodes. Like a tongue of flame. 
 

 
At dawn of day, when falcon shakes his wing, 
Mainly from pleasure, and from noble usage, 
Blackbirds too shake theirs then as they sing, 
Receiving their mates, mingling their plumage, 
O, as the desires it lights in me now rage, 
I'd offer you joyously, what befits a lover. 
See how Love had written this very page: 
Even for this end are we come together. 
 
Francois Villon 
 
Although he was in a hurry and pushed himself hard and did not rest, the witcher stayed 
in Toussaint almost the entire winter. What were his reasons? I will not write about it. It 
happened and that is enough, there is no reason to go breaking my head. To those who would 
condemn the witcher, remember that love has many names, judge not, lest ye be judged. 
 
Dandelion 
Half a Century of Poetry 
 
Those were the days of good hunting and good sleeping. 
 
Rudyard Kipling 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter Three 
 
 
The monster attacked from the darkness, from its hiding place, quietly and with 
premeditation. It materialised suddenly from the darkness like a fiery explosion. Like a 
tongue of flame. 
Geralt, though surprised, reacted instinctively. He dodged to the side, brushing up against 
the wall of the dungeon. The beast flew by and bounced from the stone wall like a ball, 
waved it wings and jumped again, hissing and opening its horrible beak. 
But this time the witcher was prepared. 
He struck with a short attack from the elbow, aiming at the throat, the red flap of the 
gizzards. He succeeded. He felt the blade penetrate the body. The momentum of the blow 
knocked the monster onto the floor near the wall. The skoffin howled with a cry that almost 
sounded human. It threw itself among the broken bricks, flapping its wings, spewing blood 
and thrashing its tail around like a whip. The witcher was sure the fight was over, but the 
nasty monster gave him an unpleasant surprise. It unexpectedly launched at his throat, 
screeching, showing its claws and snapping it beak. Geralt jumped, bouncing his shoulder 
against the wall and launched a blow from below, using the momentum of the bounce. He 
was successful. The skoffin fell once more between the bricks, its fetid blood spilled down 
the dungeon wall forming a fanciful pattern. The monster shook, screeched and stretched its 
long neck, its throat swell and shook. The blood flowed rapidly from it and disappeared 
among the bricks where it lay. 
Geralt could easily finish it off, but he did not want to destroy the skin. He waited calmly 
until the skoffin bleed to death. He moved a few steps away, undid his pants and took a piss 
while whistling a nostalgic tune. 
The skoffin was silent and still. The witcher moved closer to it and nudged it carefully 
and gently with the tip of his sword. Seeing that it was over, he grabbed the monster by the 
tail and held it up. He held the base of the tail at the height of a human's waist; the skoffin's 
sharp beak reached the ground. Its wing span was just over four feet. 
'You're not particularly heavy,' Geralt shook the monster that weighed no more than a 
fattened turkey. 'Fortunately for me I get paid per piece not by weight.' 
 
*** 
 
'Wow,' Reynart Bois-de Fresnes whistled through his teeth, which for him, Geralt knew, 
meant the highest expression of astonishment and admiration. 'This is the first time I have 
seen something like this with my own eyes. A true monster, on my honour. So this is the 
dreaded basilisk?' 
'No,' Geralt lifted the monster a little higher so the knight would see better. 'It is not a 
basilisk. It is a cockatrice.' 
'So what is the difference?' 
'The essentials. The basilisk is also known as the regulus, is a reptile. The cockatrice, also 
called a skoffin, is an ornithosaur – that is, half reptile, half bird. It is the only representative 
of the subclass, which scientist call Ornithoreptilia and after long disputes they came to the 
conclusion that...' 
'And which of the two,' Reynart Bois-de Fresnes interrupted, apparently without interest 
of the discussions of scientists, 'can kill or turn a man to stone with a glance?' 
'None. Those are stories.' 
'Then why are people so afraid? This thing here isn't so large. Can it be so dangerous?' 

'This thing here,' Geralt shook the dead monster, 'usually attacks from behind and 
without error goes perfectly between the vertebrae or the aorta or under the left kidney. 
Usually all it takes is a single thrust of its beak. With regards to the basilisk, it will kill you no 
matter where it bites; it has the strongest know poison which is a neurotoxin that kills within 
a few moments.' 
'Brrr... Tell me, which one can you kill with a mirror?' 
'All of them. If you slam it hard enough in the head with the mirror.' 
Reynard Bois-de Fresnes burst out laughing. Geralt did not laugh, the joke about the 
basilisk and the mirror was one the teachers in Kaer Morhen repeated often. Equally funny 
were the jokes about virgins and unicorns. There was also a story of foolishness about a 
young witcher from Kaer Morhen who made a bet to shake hands with a dragon. 
He smiled. Memories. 
'I prefer it when you smile,' Reynart said, watching him carefully. 'Like you are at this 
moment. Not like back in October when we first met in the Druidic woods. Back then you 
were gloomy, bitter and resentful at the world like a moneylender who had been cheated, and 
on top of that, like a man who throughout the night has come to nothing. Even in the 
morning.' 
'Really, I was like that?' 
'Really. So do not be surprised that I prefer you such as you are now. Changed.' 
'Therapy through work,' Geralt again shook the cockatrice he held by the tail. 'The 
beneficial effects of exercise on mental health. And to continue the therapy, I'll get straight to 
business. The skoffin can earn more than the agreed upon price for capture. There is little 
damage to it, so you could take it to a taxidermist for stuffing, but do not take less than two 
hundred for it. If you have to sell it in pieces, remember that the most valuable feathers are 
those above the tail, especially these, the central rudders. They are far softer than those of a 
goose and write very nicely and cleanly with little wear. An experienced scribe will not 
hesitate to give you five per pen.' 
'I have clients to collect the body,' the knight smiled. 'The Guild of Coopers. They saw in 
Castel Ravello that stuffed ugly thing, that monster, or whatever you call it... Then you, the 
day after Saovine, went into the basement and killed it.' 
'I remember.' 
'Now the Coopers had seen that stuffed ugly bitch and asked me about obtaining a similar 
rarity to decorate their guild hall. In Toussaint, the Coopers cannot complain about a lack of 
work, and as a result they are prosperous so they will not think much if we charge two 
hundred and twenty for the cockatrice. Maybe even a bit more if we try to haggle. In regards 
to the feathers... They are not going to know if we took some feathers from the things ass to 
sell to the county chancery. The chancery does not pay out of pocket, but the county will pay 
cash, without haggling, not five but ten per pen.' 
'I bow to your cunning.' 
'Nomen omen,' Reynard de Bois-Fresnes' smile broadened. 'My mum must have known 
something, baptising me after the sly fox from the nursery rhyme.' 
'You should be a businessman, not a knight.' 
'I should,' agreed the knight. 'But if you are born the son of a knight, you will die the son 
of a knight and will sire another knight. And it does not change, even if you are broke. You 
know how to count, Geralt, and the culture of the market.' 
'No, not culture. For similar reasons as yours. With the sole difference that I won't be 
siring anything. Let's get out of these dungeons.' 
Outside, beneath the walls of the castle, the frost stung and the wind blew from the 
mountains. The night was a clear and cloudless sky full of stars and the moonlight sparkled 
on the fresh snow. 

The waiting horses snorted in welcome. 
'We could go directly to my customer and make a deal,' said the knight. 'But you 
probably need to get to Beauclair, huh? To a certain bedroom?' 
Geralt did not answer, because he did not respond to such questions on principle. He tied 
the cockatrice onto the back his horse then mounted, Roach. 
'We will visit the customer,' he said. 'The night is still young and I'm hungry. I would 
also like to drink something. Let's go to town. To Pheasantry.' 
The knight laughed and adjusted the red and gold chequered shield hanging on the high 
saddle so he could scramble up. 
'As you wish, my friend. We go to, Pheasantry. Forward mount.' 
They went down the slope to the road lined by a row of poplars. 
'You know what, Reynart,' Geralt suddenly said. 'I like you as you are now. Speaking 
normally. Back when we first met, you used annoying, moronic mannerisms.' 
'Upon my honour, witcher, I am a knight-errant,' chortled the Reynart de Bois-Fresnes. 
'Have you forgotten? Knights always talk like morons. It is as much a part of their character 
as this shield here. Thanks to the speech and the coat of arms we know who belongs to the 
brotherhood.' 
 
*** 
 
'On my honour,' said the Checkerboard Knight, 'you are unnecessarily troubled, Sir 
Geralt. Your companions have certainly returned to health and their injuries forgotten. The 
Duchess has palace doctors in profusion, able to cure every disease. On my honour, there is 
more to discuss.' 
'I am of the same opinion.' said Regis. 'Lighten up, Geralt. After all the Druidess healed 
Milva...' 
'And the Druidess is familiar with treatments,' Cahir interjected. 'The best example is my 
own head. Look, it is as good as new. Milva is certainly healthy already; there is no reason 
for concern.' 
'I hope so.' 
'Healthy already,' repeated the Knight, 'I bet that when we return we will find her 
dancing at all the balls! Feasting! In Beauclair, at the court of the Duchess Anarietta there is 
always continuous dancing and feasting. Ha, ha, on my honour, now that I have fulfilled my 
knightly vow, I am...' 
'You have completed your vow?' 
'I was in the favour of Fortune! I would like to explain that I made an oath. And not just 
any oath, but on the heron. In Spring. I vowed to apprehend five hundred malefactors before 
Yule. I have completed this, so I am relieved. I can once again drink and eat beef. And I do 
not have to hid my name. Let me introduce myself. I am Reynart de Bois-Fresnes.' 
'A pleasure to meet you.' 
'You were talking of balls?' Angouleme said, urging her horse up next to them. 'I hope 
that there will be enough food and drink for us. And I would gladly dance!' 
'On my honour, at the court of Duchess Anna Henrietta, there will be plenty of both,' said 
Reynart de Bois-Fresnes. 'Singing and feasting and performances by jugglers, theatre, 
music, dancing and poetry in the evenings. You're friends of Dandelion... I man, the 
Viscount Julian. And he is very dear to Her Belovedness Our Lady Duchess.' 
'And how long he boasted!' Angouleme said. 'Was there truly an affair with them both? 
Do you know the story, Sir Knight? Tell us!' 
'Angouleme,' said the witcher. 'Do you need to know?' 

'I do not need to. But I want to! Leave off the protesting, Geralt. And stop looking so 
annoyed, otherwise the mushroom pickers will have nothing to do because the sight of your 
mouth will spoil the mushrooms on the roadside. And you, Sir Knight, tell me.' 
The other errant knights who rode at the head of the procession sang a song with a 
repeated refrain. The words of the song were almost unbelievably stupid. 
'It happened,' began the knight, 'six years ago. The poet was a guest at the court during 
the winter and spring, playing his lute, singing romances and declaiming poems. Prince 
Rajmund was at the time in Cintra for the congress. He was in no hurry to get back home; 
there was no secret that he kept a courtesan in Cintra. The Duchess Anarietta and Mister 
Dandelion... Well, Beauclair is a special, magical place where love works like a powerful 
spell on people... I'm sure you'll notice this. The Duchess got to know the troubadour. 
Maybe they did not even know it was happening – the poems, compliments, flowers, words, 
glances and sighs... To cut a story short, they both became too close.' 
'How close?' laughed Angouleme. 
'I was not an eyewitness,' the knight said stiffly. 'And it is not suitable to pass on gossip. 
Moreover, you should know at your age, my dear, that love has many names, ultimately men 
can be attracted to women, body to body.' 
Cahir snorted softly. Angouleme has nothing to add. 
'They met in secret for about two months,' continues Reynart de Bois-Fresnes. 'From 
Belleteyn in midsummer. Over time, however, they forgot prudence. Rumours spread and 
vicious talk of them did not leave them alone. Mister Dandelion did not stay and hurriedly 
left the principality. It soon became clear how wise that was. For barely had he left before 
Prince Rajmund returned from Cintra, and a servant told him everything. The Prince, when 
he had heard of the insult that had been made against him, as you can imagine, fell into a 
severe rage. He threw his bowl of soup on the table, slit the informers throat with a knife and 
roared words of little decency. Then he hit the Marshal in the face and broke his teeth and 
then in front of witnesses broke a wonderful mirror from Kovir into pieces. The Duchess was 
sent under arrest to her quarters and was threatened with torture to extract what had 
happened. After that he commanded that his soldiers pursue Mister Dandelion, and to kill him 
without mercy and cut his heart out of his chest. Inspired by some old ballads, he had 
thoughts to fry the heart and force Duchess Anarietta to eat the heart in front of the whole 
court. Ugh, disgusting! Thankfully, Mister Dandelion managed to disappear over the border 
in time.' 
'Thankfully. Then the prince died?' 
'He died. The incident, as I was told, brought his blood to the boil, it is said that he had 
apoplexy and became paralysed. He lay for nearly half a year like a log. But then he was fine. 
He stood on his feet again and walked. But with squinty eyes, like...' 
The Knight turned in his saddle, screwed up his eyes and grimaced like a monkey. 
'While Prince Rajmund,' he continued, 'had always been renowned as a womanizer, with 
the squint, he became even greater at fornicating, because every woman was thinking that he 
was winking in a sign of love for her. And quite a few females enjoyed the prince's attention. 
I am not saying that all the weaker sex in Toussaint are greedy with loose morals, but as the 
prince winked almost eternally, the majority of those women came out on top. But in the end 
trying to keep up with all this mischief, one night the apoplexy stuck him again. He breathed 
his last. In the bedroom.' 
'On top of a girl?' laughed Angouleme. 
 'Indeed,' the normal serious Knight, smiled behind his moustache. 'In truth he was 
beneath her. But there is no need to go into details.' 
'It stands to reason that you do not,' Cahir said seriously. 'Though I think there wasn't a 
lot of mourning for Prince Rajmund? During your story I got the impression...' 

'That the unfaithful wife will be more loved that the cheating husband,' interrupted the 
vampire in his usual way. 'Which is perhaps why she rules now?' 
'That is one reason why,' Reynart de Bois-Fresnes answered with a disarming sincerity. 
'But not only that. Prince Rajmund, to put it mildly, was dishonest, a villain, and forgive me, 
a motherfucker, that would cause the devil himself an ulcer in six months. And Toussaint 
suffered under his rule for seven years. But Duchess Anareitta is adored by the people.' 
'So we do not have to worry,' Geralt asked sourly, 'that the deceased Prince Rajmund left 
anyone who would honour him by putting a dagger into our friend, Dandelion?' 
'You do not have to worry,' the Knight looked at him understandingly. 'On my honour, 
nothing will happen to him. As I told you, Our Lady is devoted to the poet and Anarietta 
would make mincemeat out of anyone who tried to harm him.' 
 
The good knight returns, 
When the war is over, 
Not expecting his beloved, 
Has now been married, 
Hey, ho, ho, 
That's the knight's fate. 
 
Alarmed by the knights singing, a flock of screaming crows took flight from the trees 
lining the roadside. 
Soon they left the forest into a wide valley between the hills, on which the towers of a 
palace shone white against the blue sky. As far as the eye could see, the gentle hills were 
covered in neatly trimmed hedges and bushes. The ground beneath the bushes was lined with 
red and yellow leaves. 
'What is that?' Angouleme asked. 'Grapevines?' 
'Grapevines,' confirmed Reynart de Bois-Fresnes. 'The famous valley of Sansretour. 
The world's most excellent wine is made from the grapes that grow here.' 
'True,' said Regis, who as usual, knew everything. 'Due to the volcanic soil here and the 
local microclimate that provides the ideal amount of sunny days with annual precipitation. If 
we add to this tradition the knowledge and care from the workers of the vineyard, the 
resulting product is a superior quality brand.' 
'Well put,' the Knight smiled. 'Quality and brand. Oh, look, for example, on the slopes 
below the palace, in this region we give names to the wines and vineyards. This is called the 
Castel Ravello and its wines come from vineyards such as Erveluce, the Fiorano, the famous 
Pomino and Est Est. Surely you have heard of it. A barrel of Est Est wine is tenfold as much 
as you would pay for a barrel from the Cidaris vineyard of Alba. And there, oh, look, you can 
see other castles and vineyards, but the names will probably be too foreign to you – 
Vermentino, Toricella, Casteldaccia, Tufo, Sancerre, Nuragus, Coronata and finally Corvo 
Bianco, which the elves call, Gwyn Cerbin. I take it these names are foreign to you?' 
 'Foreign, ha!' said Angouleme. 'You especially need the knowledge so that a rogue 
innkeeper does not pour one of these wines and not ordinary plonk, otherwise more than once 
I would have had to leave my horse as a pledge, of what Est Est wine would cost. This stuff 
might be great for lords, but we the ordinary people, the cheaper the better. And I can tell you 
this for I've experienced both – puking is the same whether you've had Est Est wine or cheap 
wine.' 
 
*** 
 

'Don't judge us on our cheap wines, Angouleme,' Reynart said, sitting at a bench behind 
a table. 'We'll bring you a quality brand and a good year. We can afford to, we've earned it. 
We can treat ourselves to our heart's content.' 
'Of course,' Geralt said, waving to the innkeeper. 'Dandelion sometimes says that there 
are other motivations for making money, but can never recall what. I want to taste what is 
making those tempting smells from the kitchen. Anyway, I did not expect at this late hour, 
Pheasantry would have this many guests.' 
'But today is the feast of Yule,' said the innkeeper, who had heard his words. 'People are 
celebrating. Having fun. Having fortunes read. According to tradition...' 
'I know,' the witcher interrupted. 'And in the kitchen, what tradition are you preparing 
today?' 
'Smoked tongue and horseradish. Capon broth with meatballs. Roast meat, dumplings and 
sauerkraut...' 
'Bring it quickly, my good man. And for... What do we ask for, Reynart?' 
'With meat,' thought the Knight, 'We'll have a red Cote de Blessure. The year that the 
old Countess Caroberta kicked the bucket.' 
'A wonderful choice,' the innkeeper nodded. 'At your service, gentlemen.' 
A spring of mistletoe thrown over the shoulder of one of the girl at a neighbouring table 
fell into Geralt's lap. The celebrating company laughed and the girl blushed prettily. 
'None of that,' the Knight threw the spring back. 'This is not your chosen one. He is 
already busy, gracious lady. He is already captivated by certain green eyes...' 
'Shut up, Reynart!' 
The innkeeper brought the ordered food and drink, and then they ate and drank in silence, 
watching the surrounding festivities. 
'Yule,' Geralt said thoughtfully, placing his cup on the table. 'Midinvaerne. The winter 
solstice. I'm stuck here for two months. Two months lost.' 
'One month,' Reynart corrected him soberly. 'If you lose anything, then it is only one 
month. The snow will cover the mountain passes and you will not be able to leave Toussaint. 
You will have to stay here during Yule and probably until spring, because it will be in vain to 
waste tears on force majeure. In any case, do not go overboard with the sadness and grief. I 
do not believe that they are sorry for you.' 
'What do you know, Reynart? What do you know?' 
'Not much,' replied the Knight, pouring. 'Not much more than what I see. And I saw your 
first meeting, you and her. In Beauclair. Remember the festival of the vat? The white 
underwear?' 
Geralt did not answer. Remembering. 
'Our castle in Beauclair is magical, its charms act powerfully on people,' muttered 
Reynart, sipping wine and rolling it over his tongue. 'The view alone is able to charm. I 
remember how you gasped when you saw it, in October. Cahir show us what expression he 
used then.' 
 
*** 
 
'A spectacular castle,' Cahir said with admiration. 'On my soul, it is admirable and 
pleasing to the eye.' 
'A pretty place your Duchess lives,' said Regis. 'This has to be our stop.' 
'A fucking nice place,' Angouleme added. 
'Palace Beauclair,' Reynart Bois-de Fresnes said proudly. 'An Elvish building only 
slightly modified and redesigned. Apparently by Faramond himself.' 

'No doubt,' said the vampire. 'There is no doubt the Faramond style is evident at first 
glance. Just look at those towers.' 
The towers, slender, white obelisks, that Regis pointed to, rose high above the red roofs to 
the sky. At first sight they resembled candles, with wax cascading down to the masterfully 
decorated base. 
'At the foot of Beauclair,' the Knight Reynart explained, 'lies the city. The wall, of 
course, was added later, after all, elves do not build walls around a city. Spur your horses, 
gentlemen, we still have a long way to go. Beauclair looks close, but the mountains throw off 
perspective.' 
'Let's go.' 
On the way to the city they overtook carts and wagons, lots of carts and wagons – all full 
of grapes. They entered the noisy and grape scented streets of a city park after dark, full of 
poplar, yew and barberry. They passed roses, mostly multiflora varieties and centifolia. 
Finally they stood before the carved columns and portals of the palace, were stood soldiers 
and footmen in livery. 
Among those that greeted them was Dandelion, combed and dress like a prince. 
 
*** 
 
'Where is Milva?' 
'It's okay, don't worry. She is sitting in the chambers, which were prepared for you, and 
does not want to move from there.' 
'Why?' 
'We'll talk about that later. Now come, the Duchess is waiting.' 
'Right now?' 
'That was her wish.' 
The hall into which they entered was full of people as colourful as birds of paradise. 
Geralt did not have time to look around, because Dandelion pushed him towards a marble 
dais on which stood two women, significantly differing from the surrounding society. 
It was quiet, but it grew quieter. 
The first of the women had a sharp, slightly raised nose and penetrating blue eyes that 
seemed feverish. Her auburn hair was adjusted in a perfect and truly artistic style, tied with 
silk ribbons and submitted to the last detail – including flawless crescent curls on her 
forehead. The bodice of her dress was cut deep and interwoven with pale blue and iridescent 
purple stripes on a black background, with a dense and regular design of small embroidered 
gold chrysanthemums. Her neck was adorned with a mesh of extremely complex goldsmith's 
work – a necklace of emeralds, onyx and lapis lazuli, the lowermost edge was completed with 
a jade cross, located between her breasts, bound by the tight bodice. It seemed that the fragile 
shoulders of the woman would not generate sufficient support for her broad and deep 
cleavage, and that at any moment her breast might slip out. However, they remained in place, 
kept in position by the secret mysteries of dressmaking and the buffers of puffy sleeves. 
Her companion was more or less the same height and had lipstick on her lips the same 
colour. But that's where the similarity of the two women ended. The other wore her hair 
cropped short in a lace cap trimmed with a muslin veil reaching to the tip of her nose. The 
flower motif of the veil could not conceal her large lustrous eyes, highlighted with green 
shadow. The same floral veil covered a very modest neckline of a black dress with long 
sleeves. The dress was seemingly randomly decorated with gold stars embroidered with tiny 
cut aquamarines and mountain crystals. 
'Her ladyship, the Duchess Anna Henrietta. Kneel, Sir,' said someone, whispering behind 
Geralt. 

I wonder which one, thought Geralt, who with effort bent his sore knee in a ceremonial 
bow. I'll be damned if they both don't look royal. 
'Arise, Sir Geralt,' the lady with the auburn hair and slightly raised nose, dispelled his 
doubts. 'I welcome you to Castle Beauclair in the Principality of Toussaint. I am delighted to 
be able to host those who are carrying out such a noble mission. Moreover, you've also been 
a friend to our dear Viscount Julian.' 
At these words Dandelion bowed deeply. 
'The Viscount,' continued the Duchess, 'has revealed to me your names and the reason 
and purpose of your mission, and told me what brings you to Toussaint. His story touched my 
heart. I am going to give you a private audience, Sir Geralt. It will have to be delayed a small 
while, as I am saddled with state requirements. The harvest is complete and tradition requires 
our participation in the feast of the vat.' 
The woman in the veil at the Duchess's side leaned forward and whispered something 
quickly. Anna Henrietta looked at the witcher, smiled and licked her lips. 
'It is my desire,' she raised her voice, 'that during the festival alongside Viscount Julian, 
Geralt of Rivia will serve us.' 
A murmur swept through the group of courtiers and knights, like the rustling of wind 
through the pines. The Duchess Anarietta gave the witcher one last glance and left the room 
with her companion and retinue of pages. 
'Damn,' said the Chessboard Knight. 'That is a surprise. You have received a great 
honour, Sir Geralt.' 
'I'm not too clear what it was,' said Geralt. 'How should I serve Her Grace?' 
'Her Belovedness,' corrected a nobleman with the appearance of a confectioner. 'I'm 
sorry, sir, to correct you, but I have to meet obligations. We, in Toussaint, adhere to tradition 
and protocol. I am Sebastian Le Goff, chamberlain and marshal of the palace.' 
'Pleased to meet you.' 
'The official title of Lady Anna Henrietta,' said the chamberlain, who not only looked 
like a confectioner, but even smelled like icing, 'is "Your Enlightenedness" and unofficially 
"Lady Duchess" for outside of court. But you should always address her as "Your 
Belovedness". 
'Thank you, I'll remember that. And the other lady? How do I title her?' 
'Her official title is "venerable"' the chamberlain instructed him seriously. 'But it is 
possible to address her as "ma'am". She is a relative of the Duchess, called Fringilla Vigo. 
According to the will of Her Belovedness, it is Lady Fringilla that you will serve at the 
festival.' 
'And what is involved with this service?' 
'Nothing complicated. Let me tell you, long ago we used mechanical presses for grapes, 
but the tradition...' 
 
*** 
 
The courtyard resounded with the hum and trills of pipes, flutes and the fierce clatter of 
drums and tambourines. On stage, in the middle of the courtyard stood a huge vat, in which 
jugglers and acrobats jumped around doing flips and somersaults. The courtyard and the 
galleries were crowded with spectators – ladies, nobles, knights, burgesses, merchants and 
common people. 
Sebastian Le Goff lifted a staff entwined with vies and tapped it three times on the 
pavement. 
'Ho, ho!' he called. 'Noble ladies and gentlemen, knights, people!' 
'Ho, ho!' replied the crowd. 

'Ho, ho! This is an ancient custom! Let the vines thrive! Ho, ho! Let the sun ripen them!' 
'Ho, ho! Let them ripen!' 
'Ho, ho! Let them ferment! Let them take strength and flavour from the barrels! Let it 
change into wine! Let it flow into our cups and raise them to the honour of our majesty, the 
beautiful ladies, brave knights and industrious winemakers!' 
'Ho, ho! Cheers!' 
'Let them Beauties come forward!' 
From a damask tent on the opposite side of the courtyard stood two women – Duchess 
Anna Henrietta and her dark-haired companion. Both were shrouded in long scarlet cloaks. 
'Let the young come forward!' 
The "young" were instructed in advance what to do. Dandelion went to the Duchess and 
Geralt stepped out to meet the dark-haired companion, which he knew as Fringilla Vigo. 
Both women dropped their cloaks and the crowd rose in a thunderous ovation. Geralt 
swallowed. 
The women were wearing sleeveless white shirts made of thin spiderweb like fabric, 
which did not even reach to their thighs. And lacy panties. And nothing more. Not even 
jewellery. And they walked barefoot. 
Geralt offered Fringilla his arm, she willingly embraced him around the neck. She 
smelled of roses and amber. Her body was warm and soft. 
The women were brought to the vat, Geralt with Fringilla and the Duchess with 
Dandelion and helped to stand up in the grape juice. The crowd roared. 
'Ho, ho!' 
Anarietta and Fringilla stood facing each other and laid their hands on each other's 
shoulders to more easily maintain balance among the grapes, which rose to above their knees. 
Juice spat and sprayed. The women spun around inside the vat and laughed like kids. 
Fringilla shot the witcher a playful wink. 
'Ho, ho!' shouted the audience. 'Let then ferment!' 
Juice flowed and bubbled about the calves of the females. 
The chamberlain struck his staff on the pavement. Geralt and Dandelion approached and 
help the women get out of the vat. Geralt saw Anarietta nibble on the troubadour's ear when 
he lifted her in his arms. Her eyes glittered dangerously. He himself felt Fringilla's lips brush 
his cheek, but could not swear whether by accident or intentionally. The strong smell of wine, 
hit him in the head. Fringilla stood on the stage and wrapped herself in a scarlet cloak. The 
brunette squeezed his hand strongly. 
'These old traditions,' she said, 'can be exciting, right?' 
'Yes.' 
'Thank you, witcher.' 
'The pleasure is all mine.' 
'Not all of it, I assure you.' 
 
*** 
 
'Pour, Reynart,' 
The company at the next table performed a more festive divination – throwing a chain of 
peeled apple skins and guessing there future partners from the letter it resembled. Even 
though practically every throw produced the letter "S", they continued to throw. 
The knight poured. 
'Milva, it turns out,' said the witcher, lost in thought, 'is healthy, though she still wears a 
bandage around her ribs. But she is sitting in her room refusing to exit because she does not 
want to wear a bloody dress. It seemed that the conflict was going to break protocol, but the 

situation was calmed by the omniscient, Regis. Citing a hundred precedents forced the 
Chamberlain to bring her some male clothes. Angouleme was happy for a change to get rid of 
her pants and riding boots. After some soap, a comb and a dress she resembles a pretty girl. 
All of us seem to be in a better mood after a bath and clean clothes. Even me. I was in a fairly 
good mood when we went to the audience...' 
'Wait a minute,' interrupted Reynart and with a movement of his head indicated the 
across the taproom. 'We have some interest heading towards us. Ha, not one but two 
vineyards. Our Customer Malatesta is bringing his neighbour... and competitor. Wonder of 
wonders!' 
'Who is the second?' 
Pomerol vineyards. From there comes the Cote de Blessure, the wine that we just drank.' 
Malatesta, Vermentino's vineyard administrator, waved his arms and rushed over to them. 
The man he was leading had lush black hair and a black moustache, like an outlaw rather than 
an honourable citizen. 
'Allow me, gentlemen,' Malatesta said. 'Mister Alcides Fierabras, Pomerol vineyard 
administrator.' 
'Sit down, please.' 
'Just a minute. Mister Witcher about the monster from our cellars. By the fact that you are 
here, I assume the beast is slain. Am I correct?' 
'Quite dead.' 
'The agreed upon sum,' Malatesta assured him, 'will be paid to your account with G later 
today. Thank you very much, Mister Witcher. Very few large wineries can boast such a large 
cellar, deep and spacious, bearing to the north, neither too dry nor too wet – just perfect for 
wine. It was a shame that it could not be used. Did you see for yourself the part of the cellar 
when the monster managed to crawl through? The devil knows from where... Probably 
straight out of hell...' 
'The caves in volcanic tuffs often serve as havens for various monsters.' Reynart 
instructed importantly. He had accompanied the witcher for more than a month and was a 
good listener and learned things. 'Sure enough, where there is a tuff, you'll find a monster.' 
'Maybe the tuff,' Malatesta squinted at him. 'But people say it's because our basement 
connects with deep caverns that lead into the heart of the country. Such caves are numerous 
in this country...' 
'You don't have to look far,' said the bearded Pomerol. 'Also under our cellars are 
corridors that stretch for miles and nobody knows where they end. Those who went to 
explore never returned. And there have been seen terrible monsters. So I would ask...' 
'I can guess,' said the witcher, 'what you would ask. I accept. I will examine your cellars. 
My fee is determined in accordance with this and what I come across.' 
'You will not regret it,' said the bearded man. 'Uh, uh, uh... One more thing...' 
'Speak. I'm listening.' 
 'The succubus that haunts the nights and torments men... The one that the enlightened 
Duchess has ordered you to kill... I think there is no requirement to kill her. She bothers no 
one, to tell the truth... Oh, sometimes we will visit when drunk...to sometimes just try a 
little...' 
'But only the adults,' Malatesta added quickly. 
'I had it on the tip of my tongue, neighbour. As I said, the succubus harms no one. And 
lately even appears to be frightened of you Mister Witcher. So why pursue her? After all, you 
do not need the cash. But if you are offended...' 
'You could help my account with Gianfanelli,' Geralt said with a straight face. 'A witcher 
pension fund.' 
'So be it.' 

'The succubus's blond head will not fall.' 
'And farewell,' both of the vineyard administrators stood up. 'We will leave you in peace 
and not disturb you. This is a day of festival. A tradition. And here in Toussaint a tradition 
is...' 
'I know,' said Geralt. 'Holy." 
 
*** 
 
The company at the next table should loudly with joy at a new divination, which was 
made by using a ball of pie dough and the bones of a fish. Drinking at the same time, the 
innkeeper and the wenches bustled about running with jugs. 
'The famous succubus,' Reynart said scoping more cabbage into his dish, 'was one of the 
first of the witcher contracts you accepted when you came to Toussaint. After that everything 
move so fast and you couldn't get rid of customers. The funny thing is I do not remember 
which of the wineries gave you your first assignment...' 
'You were not there. I happened the second day after the audience with the Duchess. The 
audience where you were not needed.' 
'It's no wonder. It was a private audience.' 
'Private,' spluttered Geralt. 'It was attended by about twenty people. And that is not 
counting the footmen who were motionless as statues, pages, young children and a boring 
clown. Among those that I counted, were Le Goff, the chamberlain who would rather be a 
confectioner. There were several nobles bending under the weight of gold chains. There were 
a few cronies in black, councillors, maybe judges. There was baron with a bull's head coat of 
arms from Caed Myrkvid. And Fringilla, of course, who is obviously close to your duchess. 
And there was our bunch, including Milva in male attire. Oh, we were poorly expressed. It 
was not our whole group, we were missing Dandelion. Dandelion or rather Viscount Julian 
was lounging in a chair beside Duchess Anarietta and strutted like a peacock. A royal 
favourite. Only Anarietta, Fringilla and Dandelion sat. No one else was allowed to sit. Even 
so, I was glad we did not have to kneel. The Duchess listened to me very intently, but 
fortunately she jumped only a few times during my talk. When I finally briefly recounted my 
conversation with the flaminica, she anxiously wrung her hands. The gesture was as sincere 
as it was exaggerated. It probably sounds like an absurd contradiction in terms, but trust me, 
Reynart, it was precisely so.' 
 
*** 
 
'Oh, oh, oh,' sighed the Duchess Anna Henrietta, wringing her hands. 'Your story 
distresses me, Mister Geralt. It seizes my heart with sadness.' 
She sniffled her nose and reached out her hand, Dandelion at once placed a cambric 
handkerchief embroidered with a monogram into it. The Duchess touched the handkerchief 
lightly to her cheeks, so as not to remove her makeup. 
'Oh, oh,' she repeated. 'So the druids know nothing of Ciri? Were they not able to offer 
help? Were all your efforts in vain as the outcome of your journey?' 
'Surely not in vain,' he answered. 'I recognise that I did not get any concrete information 
from the druids or any clues, albeit only the most vague, to explain why Ciri had become the 
object of such fierce persecution. The druids, however, could not or would not help. In that 
case, I really did not learn anything new, but...' 
He paused for a moment. Not to be dramatic, but just to wonder if he could speak frankly 
in from of the whole gathering. 

'I know Ciri lives,' he said dryly. 'Probably was injured. And is still in danger. But she 
lives.' 
Anna Henrietta sighed again and took the handkerchief from Dandelion again. 
'I promise you our help and support,' she said. 'Stay in Toussaint as long as you wish. 
You should know that I used to visit Cintra, I knew and cultivated a friendship with Pavetta 
and knew and loved little Ciri. I am with you wholeheartedly, Mister Geralt. If necessary, you 
will have the assistance of our scholars and sorcerers. The doors of our library and bookstores 
are open to you. I believe that we can find some clue, some sign or indication to point you on 
the right track. Do not act hastily. You need not hasten. You can stay here as a welcome guest 
as long as necessary.' 
'I thank you for your kindness and grace,' Geralt bowed. 'However, we must continue on 
the road. Ciri is still in danger. And we are also in danger. When we stop for too long in one 
place, the danger not only grows, but begins to threaten the people around us. I will not allow 
this.' 
The Duchess was silent for a while, stroking Dandelion's forearm with a rhythmic 
movement, like a cat. 
'Your words are noble and honest. But you do not have to worry here. The villains that 
stalked you were crushed by my knighthood, so that none escape, so I have been briefed by 
Viscount Julian. And one who dares cross your path better be careful. You are under my 
protection.' 
'I appreciate that,' Geralt swept another bow, and cursed his sore knee in spirit, and not 
just his knee. 'However, I must not conceal what Viscount Dandelion has forgotten to tell 
you. The rogues who chased me to Belhaven and the one that the brave knights beat in Caed 
Myrkvid, were indeed rogues from the guild of illustrious rogues, but also wore the colour of 
Nilfgaard.' 
'And what of it?' 
'Well, this was the tip of the force of Nilfgaardians that conquered Aedirn in twenty days, 
and they could do the same to you Duchy in twenty minutes.' 
'It is a war,' he insisted. 'What happened in the woods of Caed Myrkvid and Belhaven 
maybe regarded as rebellion and disruption to the rear of the imperial troops. Something like 
that usually causes repression. In a state of war...' 
'The war,' interrupted the Duchess, lifting her nose in the air, 'has undoubtedly been 
revoked. I wrote of this matter to my cousin Emhyr var Emreis. In my letter, I asked him 
firmly to stop the senseless bloodshed. The war has ended and there has definitely been a 
peace agreement.' 
'Not so,' Geralt said calmly. 'Across the Yaruga roam sword and fire, blood is being 
spilled. There is no indication that the war was to end. Rather the opposite.' 
He immediately regretted what he said. 
'How is this possible?' the Duchess's nose lifted even higher, her voice became harsh. 
'Did I hear right? The war continues? Why were we not told about this? Minister Tremblay?' 
'Excellency, I...' one if the nobles in gold chains fell to his knees. 'I did not want to 
worry... Upset... Highness...' 
'Guards,' she screamed. 'To the tower with him! You're fallen out of favour Mister 
Tremblay! In disgrace! Lord Chamberlain! Mister Secretary!' 
'At your orders, Your grace...' 
'Have our foreign minister immediately send a note to our cousin, the Emperor of 
Nilfgaard. We demand that he immediately, immediately cease fighting and sign for peace. 
For war and discord are bad things! Discord ruins strength and harmony!' 
'Your truth has clarity' said the Chamberlain. So far he smelled like powdered sugar, now 
his face took on its colour. 

'What are you still doing here, gentlemen? I have issued an order. No go, act!' 
Geralt looked around discreetly. The noble and officials maintained their stone faces, 
similar incidents like this were nothing new at court. He decided from now on he was just 
going to agree with the Duchess. 
Anarietta took the handkerchief and touch the tip of her nose with it and smiled at Geralt. 
'As you can see,' she said. 'Your fears were in vain. You have nothing to fear and can 
stay here as long as you want.' 
'Yes, Your Excellency.' 
In the silence you could clearly hear the worms chewing wood in the antique furniture. 
And the curse of one of the groom in the far courtyard dealing with a horse. 
'We would also like to ask you something, Mister Geralt,' Anarietta interrupted the 
silence. 'Since you are a witcher.' 
'At your service, Your Excellency.' 
'It is a plea from the many of the virtuous ladies of Toussaint. A nightmare is troubling 
their homes. A spirit, a demon in female form, a succubus, so shameless that we dare not 
describe her, tortures faithful and virtuous spouses. She enters the bedrooms at night and 
makes all kinds of knavery and abominable perversion that our modesty forbids us to speak 
of. You as an expert, certainly know what it is.' 
'Yes, Your Excellency.' 
'The women on Toussaint ask that you put an end to this indecency. And I assure you our 
infinite gratitude.' 
'Thank you for your confidence, Your Excellency.' 
 
*** 
 
Angouleme found the witcher and the vampire in the castle park; both were enjoying a 
walk and a quiet conversation. 
'You will not believe,' she said. 'You will not believe what I have to tell you. But it is the 
pure truth...' 
'Speak.' 
'Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, the Checkerboard knight, in addition to other knights, are in 
line at the county treasurer's chamber. And you know what for? To collect his pay for this 
month! The line, is at least half an archery field long and there are so many tabards, the eyes 
get tired. When I asked Reynart about it he said that a knight-errant shouldn't starve.' 
'What is so strange in all this?' 
'Are you kidding! A man becomes a knight for a noble calling! Not for a monthly salary!' 
'One does not exclude the other,' Regis said seriously. 'Trust me, Angouleme.' 
'Trust him, Angouleme,' Geralt said drily. 'Stop running around the castle in search of 
sensation, go keep Milva company. She is in a terrible mood and should not be left alone.' 
'Right. Auntie has her period and because of it is more angry than a wasp. I think...' 
'Angouleme!' 
'I'm going, I'm going.' 
Regis and Geralt stopped before a bed of slightly wilted Centifolias. Yet they were unable 
to continue their conversation. From behind a greenhouse emerged a man dressed in an 
elegant coat of sienna. 
'Good morning,' he bowed and wiped his knee with his biretta. 'Can I ask which of you 
gentlemen, praise be, is the witcher named Geralt, famous in his trade?' 
'I am' 
'My name is Jean Catillon, I am the steward of the Castel Toricella vineyards. The thing 
is that we could use a witcher in the cellars. I wanted to inquire if you were willing to...' 

'What is it?' 
'Well,' began Catillon, 'because of this damn war, merchants rarely come, so inventories 
increase, and there are no new places in the cellars for the new barrels. We thought that the 
various caves and tunnels below the castle which are said to stretch across our country could 
be expanded. We found a suitable cave – large, vaulted, neither too wet or dry, it would have 
been good for the wine...' 
'So what?' the witcher could not stand it. 
'It appears that there is a monster prowling in the cave. It burned two people, reducing 
one to bones and the other one was left blind, sir, the monster spits or vomits some kind of 
caustic lye or something...' 
'A solpuga,' said Geralt. 'Also called a venenosera.' 
'Here,' smiled Regis. 'You can see for yourself, Sir Catillon that you are dealing with a 
professional. A professional, it seems who has fallen from heaven. And have you asked for 
help from the famous local knights? The Duchess has a whole regiment of them and this is 
precisely their kind of mission, their reason for being.' 
'That is not their reason,' Steward Catillon shook his head. 'Their reason is to protect the 
highways, routes and passes, because if the merchants don't reach here, we would soon be 
broke. In addition, our knights are brave and warlike – but only on horseback. They wouldn't 
go underground for anything. And plus they are expensive...' 
He stopped and was silent. He had the look of a man who wanted to spit but couldn't. 
And a look of regret. 
'They are expensive,' Geralt finished for him, but not particularly scathing. 'Take note, 
my good man that I am even more expensive. It's a competitive market. But if we have a 
contract, I'll dismount from my horse and go underground. Think about it, but do not think 
about it too long, because I will not be in Toussaint long.' 
'You surprise me,' Regis said, as soon as the steward had walked away. 'Has the witcher 
in you suddenly been revived? Do you accept the contract? Are you going to hunt the 
monster?' 
'I too am surprised,' Geralt admitted frankly. 'I reacted unconsciously, impulsively. 
Somehow I felt pulled to it. But a bid can be rejected as too low. Let's get back to our 
conversation.' 
'Wait a minute,' Regis said looking over his shoulder. 'Something tells me that you're 
about to have more business.' 
Geralt cursed under his breath. On a path lined with cypress, two knights were walking 
towards them. He instantly recognised the first one; the enormous bull's head on a field of 
white snow could not be confused with any other shield. The second knight, tall, grey, with 
nobly angular features, like they were carved from granite, had a cross with golden lilies on a 
blue background. Stopping at the prescribed distance of two steps, the knights bowed. Geralt 
and Regis bowed back; the four of them remained in orderly silence by the tradition of 
chivalry for the count of ten heartbeats. 
'Allow me, gentlemen,' said the man with the bull's head shield, 'to introduce, Baron 
Palmerin de Launfal. And I, as you can remember am called...' 
'Baron de Peyrac-Peyran. As if it was possible to forget.' 
'We have a case for the witcher,' said Baron de Peyrac-Peyran. 'Relative, so to speak, to 
his professional work.' 
'Speak.' 
'In private.' 
'I have no secrets from Mister Regis.' 

'But the noble lords have them,' the vampire smiled. 'Therefore, if I may, I will take a 
look at that beautiful pavilion, which is probably a secluded toilet. Lord de Peyrac-Peyran... 
Lord de Launfal...' 
Bows were exchanged. 
'I'm listening,' Geralt broke the silence without thinking for a moment about waiting ten 
heartbeats. 
'It's,' Peyrac-Peyran lowered his voice and looked around fearfully, 'the succubus... The 
spirit that haunts the night. The Duchess and ladies have asked you to destroy. May I ask how 
much you have been promised to kill the monster?' 
'I'm sorry, gentlemen, but it is a professional secret.' 
'We understand, we understand,' said the knight with the cross of lilies. 'It is clear that 
we are dealing with an honourable man. Verily, I fear that such a man will find insult with 
our proposal, but I must give it. Renounce this contract, Sir Witcher. Please leave the 
succubus alone. We will not say anything to the Duchess and the ladies. And on my honour, 
we men of Toussaint, will exceed the amount of the ladies. You would be amazed by our 
generosity.' 
'Your proposal,' said the witcher in a cold voice, 'is in fact not too far from an insult.' 
'Mister Geralt,' Palmerin de Launfal's face was hard and serious. 'I'll tell you what we 
dare to propose. Ergo, there is a rumour about you. Saying that you only kill those monsters 
that are a threat. A real threat. Not from imagination, or from ignorance or prejudice. Let me 
tell you that the succubus does not threaten or harm anyone. Oh, she visits sleeping men... 
from time to time... And mortifies a little...' 
'But only to adults,' Peyrac-Peyran quickly added. 
'The ladies of Toussaint,' Geralt said looking around, 'would not be very happy if they 
knew of this conversation. Nor would the Duchess.' 
'We fully agree with you,' murmured Palmerin de Launfal. 'We recommend the utmost 
discretion. There is no need to irritate the bigoted guardian of decency.' 
'Open an account for me with one of the local dwarven banks,' Geralt said slowly and 
quietly. 'And amaze me with your generosity. But be advised that it is not easy to amaze me.' 
'We are still going to try,' Peyrac-Peyran said confidently. 
They exchanged farewells. 
He returned to Regis, who of course had heard everything with his vampire hearing. 
'Now,' he said without smiling,' you can argue that it was an involuntary reflex and 
inexplicable impulse. But how do you explain that to an open bank account?' 
Geralt looked somewhere high above the tops of the cypress trees. 
'Who knows,' he said. 'Maybe we'll spend a few days here. Given Milva's broken ribs, it 
may even be more than a few days. Maybe a couple of weeks? It would not hurt if during this 
time we gained some financial independence.' 
 
*** 
'So that's were there bank account with Gianfanelli came from,' Reynart de Bois-Fresnes 
shook his head. 'Well, if the Duchess finds out, it will mean new changes in rank, there 
would be a new distribution of patents. Ha, maybe I'd even get promoted? On my honour, it's 
a shame you do not have the qualities of a snitch. Tell me now of the famous banquet that 
caused you so much joy. I longed to take part in it, to eat and drink! But they sent me to the 
border, to a watchtower, in the cold and grey mountains. What despair, the fate of a knight..!' 
'The large and highly anticipated banquet,' Geralt said, 'was prepared with great care and 
diligence. We mainly had to find Milva, who had holed up in the stables and convince her 
that her attendance at the banquet was essential and depended upon the fate of Ciri and nearly 

the whole world. We almost forcibly compelled her to wear women's clothes. Then we had to 
get Angouleme to promise to behave as a well-behaved young lady, and to especially avoid 
words like "fuck" and "ass". And when we finally got everything ready and to ensure our 
success we downed a cup of wine, your confectioner Le Goff appeared. Smelling like frosting 
and puffing like a pig's bladder.' 
 
*** 
 
'By virtue of my office,' Le Goff said through his nose. 'I want to assure you that at the 
festive board, Her Highness has few places of honour and importance, therefor no one can 
feel prejudice to the place allocated to him. But because here, in Toussaint, we pay special 
attention to traditions and customs...' 
'Get to the point, sir.' 
'The banquet is tomorrow. I organise all guests according to their origin and status.' 
'Sure,' the Witcher said seriously. 'The most important of us is Dandelion. Both in origin 
and status.' 
'Viscount Julian,' the Chamberlain said, wrinkling his nose, 'is an extraordinary guest of 
honour. As such, he will sit at the right hand of Her Serene Highness.' 
'Sure,' repeated the Witcher, with all seriousness. 'And he has failed to clarify what our 
ranks, titles and honours are?' 
'He revealed,' the Chamberlain coughed, 'but only that the noble gentlemen and maidens 
are travelling incognito, and therefore cannot reveal their names, ranks and titles.' 
'That is correct. What is the problem?' 
'I have to know! You are guest and companions of the Viscount, so you will be sitting 
near the head of the table... Among the Barons. But it is still possible that you gentlemen and 
ladies maybe of a higher rank, which would entitle you to sit closer to the Duchess...' 
'He,' said the witcher, pointing to the vampire without hesitation, who was not far away 
admiring a tapestry which took up most of the wall, 'is an Earl. But not a word about it. It is a 
secret.' 
'I understand,' gasped the fat man with excitement. 'In those circumstances... I will seat 
him next to Countess Notturna, the noble and gracious aunt of the Duchess.' 
'You will not regret it, neither you nor the aunt,' Geralt assured him with a straight face. 
'The earl has no equal in the ways of art and conversation.' 
'I am pleased to hear it. For your part, Lord of Rivia, I will sit you next to the venerable 
Lady Fringilla. As is the tradition. You carried her to the vat, you are her... hmmm... knight, 
as it...' 
'I understand.' 
'Excellent. Ah, Earl...' 
'What?' the vampire said surprised who had just moved away from the tapestry, 
representing the battle with a Cyclops. 
'Nothing, nothing,' Geralt smiled. 'We were just talking.' 
'Aha,' Regis nodded. 'I do not know if you gentlemen have noticed... But the Cyclops in 
the tapestry, the one with the club... Look at the toes on his feet. I'm afraid to say that he has 
two left feet.' 
'Indeed,' Chamberlain Le Goff confirmed without a trace of amazement. 'There are more 
of these tapestries in Beauclair. The weaver who wove it was a true master. But he drank a 
lot. But he was an artist.' 
 
*** 
 

'It's time,' said the witcher, avoiding the eyes of the wine tipsy girls peering at him from 
the other table, who were amusing themselves with divination. 'Let's go, Reynart. Pay up, get 
the horses and lets go to Beauclair.' 
'I know why you are in such a hurry,' the knight showed his teeth. 'Don't worry, green 
eyes will be waiting. It is hardly midnight. Tell me about the banquet.' 
'I'll tell you and we'll go.' 
'Let's go.' 
 
*** 
 
The sight of the huge horseshoe shaped banquet table clearly reminded them that autumn 
was finished and winter was approaching. Among the food bowls and trays, were platters of 
venison and all possible types of game. There were whole quarters of wild boar, deer, hams 
and pink slices of smoked meat and pies. All decorated with seasoned mushrooms, 
cranberries and rowanberries. There were autumn birds – grouse, pheasant, quail, served with 
decorative wings and tails, roasted in hazel and mistle. They also served fish – trout and pike, 
fished from the mountain streams. 
Even in autumn they did not lack the festive greens. It included a salad of lettuce, which 
must have been harvested while still under the snow. Flowers had been substituted with 
mistletoe. 
In the middle of the horseshoe table at the place of honour, where the Duchess Anarietta 
and her guest would sit, was a large silver tray filled with decorations. Among the flowers, 
lemon slices, artichoke hearts and truffles, stood an enormous sturgeon on whose back stood 
a heron. In its raised beak it held a golden ring. 
'I swear by the heron!' Peyrac-Peyran the well-known Baron with the bull's head coat of 
arms cried, standing up and raising his cup. 'By the heron I swear to defend the honour of 
knighthood, and to never leave the field to anyone!' 
The vow was rewarded with tumultuous applause. They began to eat. 
'I swear by the heron,' shouted another knight with a twisted aggressive moustache like a 
broom. ' I swear to defend to the last drop of my blood the borders of Her Excellency Anna 
Henrietta! To prove my loyalty, I swear to paint on my shield a heron and for a year to fight 
incognito and shall be called the Knight of the White Heron! Health to Our Lady the 
Duchess!' 
'Health! Happiness! Cheers! Long live the Duchess!' 
Anarietta thanked them with a slight nod of her diamond tiara decorated head. She was 
wearing so many diamonds, that if she was to walk past a window she would scratch the 
glass. Dandelion sat beside her and smiled stupidly. A little further on, between to matrons, 
sat Emiel Regis. He was dressed in a black velvet jacket which made him look like a 
vampire. He served the matrons with conversation and they listened fascinated. 
Geralt took a platter covered in a perch and parsley and offered it to Fringilla Vigo who 
was sitting to his left. She wore a gown of blue satin and a gorgeous amethyst necklace. She 
looked at him from under her long eyelashes, lifted her cup and smiled mysteriously. 
'Your health, Geralt. I'm glad that we sat next to each other.' 
'Do not praise the day before sunset,' he said returning her smile, because he was in a 
good mood. 'The banquet has barely begun.' 
'On the contrary. It has lasted long enough, you haven't given me a compliment. How 
long must I wait?' 
'Your beauty so dazzles me that I lack the words.' 

'Slow down, slow down,' she laughed, and he swore that it was honest. 'I fear to think 
how far we would go at this rate before the end of the banquet. Start from... Well, say I have 
an elegant dress and blue suits me.' 
'The colour blue suits you. But I have to admit that I liked you more in white.' 
He recognised a challenge in her emerald eyes. He feared to accept it. His good humour 
did not reach that far. 
Cahir and Milva sat on the opposite side of the table. The young man was sitting between 
two noble young ladies, probably baronesses that kept talking to him. Meanwhile, the archer 
kept company with an older gentleman, dark and silent, his stone face was scarred from 
smallpox. 
A little further on sat Angouleme, leading yarns and the uproar of young knights. 
'What is this?' she squeaked, waving around a silver knife. 'A blunt knife? Are they 
afraid that we will start a fight at the banquet?' 
'These knives,' explained Fringilla, 'have been used in Beauclair since the days of 
Princess Caroline Roberta, Anna Henrietta's grandmother. Karoberta hated when the guests 
at the table picked their teeth with knives and blades with rounded tips were introduce so 
there was no way of picking.' 
'No way,' agreed Angouleme, smiling impishly. 'Fortunately, they gave me a fork!' 
 She pretended to put the fork in her mouth, but a menacing glare from Geralt stopped 
her. The knight who sat to his right laughed with a vibrant falsetto. 
Geralt took a pot of duck in aspic and served it to Fringilla. He saw two young 
Baronesses religiously looking at Cahir, and how he honestly tried to divide among them 
equally his attention. He saw the young knights bustle around Angouleme, getting her food 
and laughing at her silly jokes. 
He saw Milva crumbling bread and staring at the tablecloth. 
Fringilla seemed to read his thoughts. 
'It's too bad,' she whispered, leaning towards him, 'about your tight-lipped friend. Well, 
such things happen when laying out the table. Chivalry is not Baron de Trastamara strong 
point.' 
'Maybe it's better,' Geralt said quietly, 'a slobbery and willing courtier would have been 
worse. I know Milva.' 
'Are you sure?' she looked at him quickly. 'Could it be you measure her with your own 
staff? Which, frankly. Is pretty grim.' 
He did not answer, instead he poured wine. And he recognised it was time to clarify a 
certain issue.' 
'You're a sorceress, right?' 
'I am,' she said, deftly hiding her total surprise. 'How did you know?' 
'I can feel an aura,' he did not enter into details. 'I have had experience.' 
'To be clear,' she said. 'I did not intend to deceive anyone. On the other hand, I am under 
no obligation to show off my profession or to impose a pointy hat and black cloak. Why 
should they have to scare children with me? I have the right to be incognito.' 
'I do not deny it.' 
'I am in Beauclair because here is the largest and richest library in the known world. 
Besides the university, that is. But universities guard access to their shelves and here I am a 
relative and friend to Anarietta and can do anything I want.' 
'An enviable position.' 
'During the audience the duchess suggested that in the library or archive you may find 
some useful information. Do not be fooled by her exaltation, she's like that. But you may find 
something in the local books. You just have to know where to look.' 
'As simple as that.' 

'Your enthusiasm is really contagious and encourages me to continue the conversation,' 
her green eyes flashed. 'I guess the reason is because you do not trust me, correct?' 
'Would you like more hazel grouse?' 
'I swear by the heron!' A young knight from the end of the horseshoe got up and tied a 
sash around one eye that was held out by a neighbour at the table. 'I vow to not take off this 
sash until all the bandits in the passage of Cervantes are killed!' 
The Duchess nodded at him with her sparkling tiara. 
Geralt hoped Fringilla would not pursue the subject. He was wrong. 
'You do not believe or trust me,' she said. 'You have caused me a painful double blow. 
Not only do you doubt the sincerity that I want to help, but you do not believe that I can. Oh, 
Geralt! You have hurt my pride and lofty ambition.' 
'Listen...' 
 'No!' She raised her knife and fork as if threatened them. 'Do not explain yourself. I 
cannot stand men who are justified.' 
'What kind of man can you stand?' 
Her eyes narrowed, but she still held the cutlery like knives ready to strike. 
'The list is long,' she said slowly, 'and I do not want to bore you with the details. I will 
mention only those men occupied by distinguished positions who are willing to follow a 
loved one to the end of the world and do not succumb to fear and despise danger. And do not 
give up even when it seems there is no chance.' 
'What about other positions on the list?' he could not contain himself. 'Are their men who 
you do like? Are they also crazy?' 
'What is real masculinity,' she mockingly shook her head, 'but the right mixture of crazy 
and style?' 
'Ladies and gentlemen, barons and knights!' Cried the Chamberlain Le Goff as he rose 
and stood with both hands on a gigantic glass. 'Under these circumstances I would make a 
toast to the health of our most serene ladyship, the Duchess Anna Henrietta!' 
'Health and happiness!' 
'Hurray!' 
'Long live the Duchess!' 
'And now ladies and gentlemen,' the Chamberlain set down the glass and gestured 
towards the servants, 'Now... Magna beast!' 
On a tray resting on the shoulders of four strapping servants was a gargantuan roast being 
brought into the hall. 
'Magna beast!' The rest of the guest cried in chorus. 'Hurray! Magna beast!' 
'And what fucking beast is that?' Angouleme expressed her concern aloud. 'I won't eat it 
until I find out what it is.' 
'It's a deer,' Geralt said. 'A roast deer.' 
'And not just any deer,' Milva spoke, clearing her throat. 'The deer weighs about seven 
hundredweight.' 
'Close. It is seven hundredweight and forty pounds,' said the baron sitting next to her 
hoarsely. They were the first words that he had spoken since the beginning of the banquet. 
Maybe it would have been the beginning of a conversation, but the archer blushed, fixed 
her eyes on the tablecloth and resumed crushing her bread. 
But Geralt took to heart, Fringilla's words. 
'Were you perhaps, Lord Baron,' he asked, 'the happy hunter, who took down this beast?' 
'No,' he replied. 'My nephew, an excellent marksman. But these are men's interests, so to 
speak... I'm sorry, I did not mean to bore the ladies present...' 
'From what bow?' Milva asked, still staring at the tablecloth. 'I'm sure from at least a 
seventy?' 

'The double bent zefar,' the Baron said slowly, visibly surprised. 'Laminate, Layers of 
yew, acacia, ash and bonded tendons. Seventy-five pounds of force.' 
'And tension?' 
'Twenty-nice inches,' the Baron spoke more slowly, he seemed to almost spit out the 
words. 
'A nice piece,' Milva said happily. 'It can shot a deer from perhaps a hundred paces. If 
the shooter is really good.' 
'I,' growled the Baron somewhat indignantly, 'at a quarter of a hundred paces, hit a 
pheasant.' 
'At a quarter of a hundred paces,' Milva lifted her head, 'I hit a squirrel.' 
The Baron, clearly flustered, quickly started on his food and drink. 
'A good bow is half the success,' he stammered. 'But equally important, so to speak, are 
quality arrows. To me the best...' 
'To the health of Her Excellency Anna Henrietta! To the health of Viscount Julian de 
Lettenhove!' 
'Cheers!' 
'...And she kicked him in the ass,' Angouleme finished another silly joke. The young 
knights rolled with laughter. 
The Baronesses whose names were Queline and Nique, listened to Cahir with open 
mouths, wide eyes and burning cheeks. At the head of the banquet table could be hear Regis 
and the higher aristocracy. For Geralt – even with his witcher hearing – could only make out 
a few buzz words here and there, but they seemed to be talking about ghosts, strigas, succubi 
and vampires. Regis gesticulated with a silver fork and argued the best remedy for vampires 
are silver, whose lightest touch is absolutely deadly to a vampire. What about garlic? Asked 
one of the ladies. Garlic is also effective; Regis went on, but socially awkward, because of 
the awful smell. 
In the gallery and orchestra played softly, fiddles and flutes and jugglers and fire-eaters 
boasted their arts. Jesters tried to entertain the company, but Angouleme raked over the top of 
them. Then came a bear – which to everyone's amusement did a pile of the floor. Angouleme 
became sad – she could not compete with something like that. 
The Duchess suddenly fell into a rage, with some reckless word one of the barons fell out 
of favour and went under escort to the tower. No one but the victim showed any sorrow. 
'Don't leave here so quickly,' Fringilla Vigo said suddenly, sipping from a cup. 'Even if 
you prefer to run away, none of this will.' 
'Please, do not read my thoughts.' 
'Sorry. They were so strong that I read them involuntarily.' 
'I don't know how many times I have heard that.' 
'I myself don't know how many times I know. Please, eat the artichokes, they are health 
and are good for the heart. The heart is an important organ in the male, the second when it 
comes to validity.' 
'I thought the most important were rank and madness.' 
'Qualities of the mind should go hand in hand with qualities of the body. This gives 
perfection.' 
'Nobody is perfect.' 
'This is not an argument. You have to try them. You know what. I will have that hazel 
grouse.' 
He cut the bird on her plate so fast and suddenly that the witch trembled. 
'Do not leave here so fast,' she said again. 'First, because you do not have too. And you 
are not in danger...' 

'Of course not,' he burst out. 'Nilfgaard will be frightened of a protest note from the 
Duchess. And if they did risk coming here, they'd be expelled by knights with sashes binding 
their eyes and vows made to herons.' 
'Nothing threatens you here,' she said, ignoring his sarcasm. 'Toussaint is considered the 
land of fairy tales, silly, clueless and thanks to it sustained economic focus in a state of 
constant drinking and recklessness. As such, it is not taken seriously by anyone, but is 
permitted to enjoy certain privileges. In the end we are the most prominent producer of wine 
and as we know, life without wine would be very unstable. In Toussaint there are no spies, 
agents or secret service. Toussaint doesn't need an army, just wandering knights wearing 
blindfolds because Toussaint is never attacked. By the look of you, I guess I have not 
convinced you.' 
'Not at all.' 
'A pity,' Fringilla squinted. 'I hate half-measures or half-promises. Neither of these 
things should be done by half. So I'll tell you – Fulko Artevelde, the prefect of Riebrune, 
thinks you are dead, some fugitives told him that the druids burned you alive. Fulko is doing 
his best to cover up the matter. If the case came to light, it could trigger an investigation that 
could cost Fulko his career at best. And when he sees you alive it will be too late – what he 
said in the reports will be binding.' 
'You know a lot.' 
'I do not deny it. So the argument about the persecution from the Nilfgaardians 
disappears. And now nothing forces your rapid departure.' 
'Interesting.' 
'But true. From Toussaint you can leave by four passes that lead to four different parts of 
the world. The Druids did not tell you anything and refused to cooperate. The mountain elf 
has disappeared...' 
'You really do know a lot.' 
'You already said that.' 
'And you want to help.' 
'And you refuse my help. You do not believe in the sincerity of my intentions. You don't 
trust me.' 
'Listen, I...' 
'Do not explain yourself. Eat some more artichokes.' 
Again someone made a vow to the heron. Cahir spoke to the baronesses giving them 
compliments. Angouleme, tipsy, could be heard throughout the whole room. The pockmarked 
and flushed baron, mesmerized by discussions about archery and hunting, even started flirting 
with Milva. 
'Please, my lady, try the wild boar ham. So to speak... They are from my manor forest, 
where a whole herd of them reside.' 
'Oh.' 
'There are among them some outstanding boars to hunt... Maybe sometime... you could 
come and we can, so to speak, go hunting together...' 
'But we will not be staying here long,' Milva looked pleadingly at Geralt. 'More 
important tasks than hunting lie ahead.' 
But when she saw how disappointed the Baron looked, she hastily added, 'Under other 
circumstances, I would be happy to go hunting boars.' 
The Baron immediately cheered up. 
'If not for hunting,' he said elated, 'at least for a visit. I would honestly like to invite you 
all to my manor. I can show you, so to speak, my collection of hunting trophies, bows and 
sword...' 

Milva looked down at the tablecloth. The Baron grabbed a tray of fowl and served her 
then filled her cup. 
'Excuse me, graceful maiden,' he said. "I'm not, so to speak, an entertaining companion. 
I do not control courtly manners and smooth words are foreign to me...' 
'I,' Milva shyly confessed, 'I was raised in the woods. I can appreciate peace and 
silence.' 
Fringilla found Geralt's hand under the table and held it tightly. Geralt looked into her 
eyes. He could not guess what was hidden in them. 
'I trust you,' he said. 'I believe in the sincerity of your purpose.' 
'You do not lie?' 
'I vow by the heron.' 
 
*** 
 
The City guard must have had the chance to celebrate Yule because he walked unsteadily, 
banging his halberd into signs and through a slurred proclamation announced that it was the 
tenth of the clock, when in fact it was well after midnight. 
'You'll have to go to Beauclair alone,' Reynart de Bois-Fresnes said soon after they left 
the tavern. 'I shall stay in the city. Good night, Geralt.' 
The Witcher knew that his friend had a love affair with a certain lady. Whose husband is 
often on the road for business. He never talked about it because men do not talk of such 
things. 
'Good night, Reynart. Take care of the skoffin. Don't let it spoil.' 
'It's freezing.' 
It was freezing. The streets were empty and dark. The moon shone on the roofs, shining 
like diamonds on the ice that hung from the eaves. Roach's horseshoes rang against the 
pavement. 
Roach, thought the witcher as he headed towards the palace of Beauclair, a graceful grey 
mare, a gift from Anna Henrietta. And Dandelion. 
He urged his horse forwards. Hurrying up. 
 
*** 
 
The next day after the banquet they all met for breakfast, they became accustomed to 
going straight to the castle kitchen. For some reason, they were always welcome and always 
found something for them in the pots, pans or grills, usually bread, bacon, cheese or maybe 
pickled mushrooms. They never missed a jar or two of red or white from the famous local 
vineyards. 
They went there every morning for the two weeks they spent in Beauclair – Geralt, Regis, 
Cahir, Milva and Angouleme. Only Dandelion had breakfast elsewhere. 
'He,' Angouleme slathered some bread with butter, 'has his bacon brought to him in bed! 
With everyone bowing to him!' 
Geralt was willing to believe that the girl was right. And this morning decided to check it 
out. 
 
*** 
 
He found Dandelion in the Knights Hall. The poet wore a crimson beret as big as a loaf of 
bread and was wearing a doublet of the same colour richly embroidered with gold thread. He 

was sitting on a stool with his lute on his knees and his head was nodding carelessly in 
answer to the flattery of the courtiers and ladies who circled around him. 
Anna Henrietta was thankfully not in sight, so Geralt unhesitatingly violated etiquette and 
headed straight for him friend. Dandelion saw him coming, swelled and with an imperious 
gesture said, 'Ladies and gentlemen, please leave us in private. Also the servants are allow to 
leave.' 
He clapped his hands and before the echo of his clap returned from the vaulted ceiling of 
the hall, only the two of them stood there – and the smell of perfume, which hovered in the 
air after the ladies left. 
'Pretty fun.' Geralt said without exaggeration, 'this is the chase, huh? It must be a nice 
feeling to give orders or clap or a monarchical frown. See how they retreat, like crabs, 
bending before you in reverence. Pretty fun, right? Sir Favourite?' 
Dandelion scowled. 
'Are you here for something specific,' he said gruffly, 'or just this crap?' 
'About something very specific.' 
'Speak, I'm listening.' 
'I need three riding horses. For me, Cahir and Angouleme. And two wagons, loaded with 
rations and feed. Can you ask for them from your Duchess? You have served long enough, I 
hope?' 
'No problem,' Dandelion tuned his lute not looking at the witcher. 'But I'm surprised by 
your haste. I would say it surprises me as much as your silly sarcasm.' 
'My urgency surprises you?' 
'Just so you know. October is over and the weather deteriorates noticeably. Snow will be 
falling in the passes any day now.' 
'And you wonder at my hurry,' the witcher nodded. 'But that reminds me, get more warm 
clothing. Fur.' 
'I thought,' Dandelion said slowly, 'that we would wait out the winter here. That we 
would be here...' 
'I you like,' Geralt said without thinking, 'you can stay.' 
'Yes,' Dandelion put his lute aside and stood up. 'I think I will stay.' 
 The witcher gasped audibly. He was silent. He looked at the tapestry, which depicted an 
imaginary fight between a titan and a dragon. The titan was standing on two left feet, trying 
to break the dragon's jaw, and the dragon did not look too thrilled. 
'I'm staying,' Dandelion repeated. 'I love Anarietta. And she loves me.' 
Geralt remained silent. 
'I will arrange the horses,' Dandelion promised. 'For you, I'll prepare a thoroughbred 
mare named Roach, of course. For the journey you will also get food, equipment and warm 
clothing. But honestly, I advise you to wait until spring. Anarietta...' 
'Do I hear you correctly?' the Witcher finally regained his voice. 'Are my ears deceiving 
me?' 
'Your reason has certainly failed,' snapped the troubadour, 'How are you other senses, I 
don't know. But to be safe I will repeat – Anarietta and I love you. Abide in Toussaint. With 
her.' 
'Like what? A lover? A favourite? Or maybe the Prince Consort?' 
'Formal and legal status doesn't mean anything to me,' Dandelion admitted frankly. 'But 
you can't rule out anything. Marriage or not.' 
Geralt was silent again, contemplating the titan's battle against the dragon. 
'Dandelion,' he said finally. 'If you've been drinking, sober up quickly. If you haven't 
been drinking, then let's have a drink. Then we'll talk.' 
'I don't quite understand,' Dandelion said frowning. 'What are you saying?' 

'Think a minute.' 
'Are you embarrassed about my relationship with Anarietta? Are you asking me to 
reconsider it? Don't worry, I've thought about it. Anarietta loves me...' 
'Have you ever heard a saying,' said Geralt, 'that princesses leap after love like hares? 
Even if Anarietta is not so frivolous, forgive my candour, it seems to me, that...' 
'What?' 
'That it is only in fairy tales that Duchesses marry musicians.' 
'First of all,' snapped Dandelion, 'Even such an ignoramus like you should have heard of 
morganatic marriages. Do I have to get out some examples from ancient and recent history? 
Secondly, it may surprise you, but I am not of an insignificances. My family, de Lettenhove, 
are derived from...' 
'I'm listening to you,' Geralt cut him off again, 'and I don't believe my own ears. Is this 
really my friend Dandelion, who is speaking such crap? If it is indeed my friend, Dandelion, 
has he lost all shred of reason? Is it really Dandelion, whom I had known to be a realist, who 
is now living in a sphere of illusion? Open your eyes, you idiot!' 
'Oh,' the troubadour said slowly, clenching his lips. 'The roles are reversed. I am blind, 
but you have become a sober and factual observer. It used to be the opposite. And what is this 
curious thing that I cannot see? Huh? What have I, according to you, closed my eyes too?' 
'Most of all,' said the witcher, 'that your chosen duchess is arrogant and ridiculous and 
spoiled. She is a big child for whom you are nothing but a toy, which she will discard without 
reproach as soon as a new musician appears with a fascinating new repertoire.' 
'What you say is low and vulgar. I hope you realise?' 
'I realise that you have gone completely mad, Dandelion.' 
The poet was silent, stroking the neck of his lute. It took some time before he spoke 
again. 
'We came out of Brokilon on a joy expedition. Without the slightest chance of success, 
we followed a mirage, a dream, a desire, an unattainable ideal. We set off in pursuit like 
crazy fools. But I, Geralt, I did not say a word of complaint. I did not call you crazy or 
ridicule you. Because you were filled with hope and love. They guided you on this insane 
mission. And me too. But I have caught up with a mirage, and I was lucky enough that the 
dream came true. My mission has ended. I have found what is hard to find. And I cannot give 
it up. Is that supposed to be madness? I'd be a fool if I left.' 
Geralt was silent as long as Dandelion had been before. 
'Poetry,' he said. 'In that you have no equal. I do not have anything to say, you have 
convinced me with your arguments. Farewell, Dandelion.' 
'Farewell, Geralt.' 
 
*** 
 
The library of the palace was indeed huge. The room which housed it was at least twice 
the size of the Knights Hall, where he had left Dandelion. The library had a glass ceiling, 
through which sunlight poured. Geralt imagined, however, that in summer it would heat up 
like hell. 
The passages between the shelves were so narrow that they had to walk very carefully to 
avoid knocking over stacks of books. 
'Here I am,' he heard a call. 
The center of the library disappeared among piles of books. Many lay completely 
disordered, one by one or in clusters. 
'Here, Geralt.' 

He found here between the bookish canyons and gorges. She was kneeling among 
scattered books, fanning them and sorting. She wore a modest grey dress pulled up slightly 
for comfort. Geralt saw that the view was very attractive. 
'Do not be scared of this mess,' she said wiping her forehead with her forearm, because 
her hands were covered in thin silk gloves, dirty from dust. 'They are performing inventory 
and cataloguing. But they have stopped at my request. I wanted to be alone in the library. I 
cannot work when a stranger is gazing at the back of my neck.' 
'I'm sorry. Do you want me to leave?' 
'You're not a stranger,' she narrowed her green eyes. 'Your gaze does not bother me... 
On the contrary, it makes me happy. Don't just stand there. Sit down her on the books.' 
He sat down on a hardcover encyclopaedia. 
'This is a mess,' Fringilla made a sweeping gesture around her, 'is going to make my job 
easier. I can get to the volumes that would normally lie at the bottom of a pile and would be 
impossible to move. The court librarians moved mountains of papers and parchments, so 
some of the real jewels of literature can see the light of day, some true rarities. Look. Have 
you ever see this?' 
'Speculum Aureum? I've seen it.' 
'I forgot, sorry. You've seen a lot. That was a compliment, not sarcasm. But look at this 
one, Gesta Regum. From this we begin to understand who your Ciri really is and what blood 
flows in her viens... You know, you look even more sour than usual. What is the reason?' 
'Dandelion.' 
'Will you tell me about it?' 
He spoke. Fringilla listened, sitting with her legs crossed on the pile of books. 
'Hmmm,' she said when he had finished. 'I admit that I expected something similar. I 
have noticed Anarietta showing unmistakable signs of falling in love.' 
'Falling in love?' he raised his eyebrows. 'Or a noble whim?' 
'Do you not believe,' she looked at him sharply, 'of a pure and sincere love?' 
'My belief or disbelief,' he said, 'has nothing to do with it. It is Dandelion and his 
obsessive...' 
He suddenly lost confidence and did not finish. 
'With love,' Fringilla said, 'it is like nervous cramps. You cannot even be effect until they 
attack, and you cannot even imagine something like that. And when you describe it, nobody 
would believe it.' 
'Some part does,' agreed the witcher. 'But there are also differences. Against nervous 
cramps common sense won't protect you. And there is no cure.' 
'Love mocks sense. That is part of its charm and beauty.' 
'Stupidity rather.' 
She got up and approached him while taking off her gloves. Her eyes gave the feeling of 
being deep and dark behind the curtain of her lashes. She smelled of amber, roses, the dust 
from the library, aging paper and printing ink. Those smells had nothing to do with 
aphrodisiacs – and yet for him they worked. 
'You do not believe,' her voice changed, 'in love at first sight? Fatal attraction? The 
collision of celestial bodies?' 
She reached out and put her hands on his shoulders. He grabbed her around the waist. Her 
face approached reluctantly, wary, as if afraid to frighten some very timid creature. 
And then the celestial bodies collided and the earth moved. 
They fell in a pile of parchment that scattered everywhere under their weight. Geralt stuck 
his nose into Fringilla's neckline. He hugged her and grabbed her knee. He rolled up her skirt 
to her waist knocking over several books, including Lives of the Prophets, full of mysterious 
illustrations, as well as De Haemorrhoidibus, an interesting, though controversial medical 

treatise. The witcher pushed aside volumes and pulled at the dress impatiently. Fringilla 
eagerly raised her hips. 
Something pushed against her shoulder. She turned her head. Learning the Art of 
Midwifery. Quickly, so as not to tempt the devil, she looked in the other direction. The 
Sulphurous Hot Springs. In fact it was getting warmer. From the corner of her eye she saw an 
open book which rested by her head. Reflections on Inevitable Death. Even better, she 
thought. 
The witcher struggled with her panties. She raised her hips, but this time only slightly, so 
that it look like a random movement and not defiant help. She did not know him and did not 
know to respond. Whether he prefers that a woman knows what she wants, or does he like a 
woman who pretends she doesn't know. And if he would be discouraged by panties that 
offered resistance. 
The witcher, however, seemed to show no signs of discouragement. You could say the 
contrary. Seeing that it was time, Fringilla eagerly spread her legs, bringing down books and 
pamphlets stacked in piles, which poured over them like an avalanche. A heavy, leather 
bound copy of Mortgage Law painfully struck her in the ribs and the Codex Diphmaticus, 
adorned with brass fittings, fell on Geralt's wrist. Geralt assessed and took advantage of the 
situation – placing the large tome where it was necessary. Fringilla squeaked because the 
fittings were cold. But only for a moment. 
She gasped loudly, letting go of the witcher's hair and throwing her hands out, grasping 
both hands into the surrounding books, he left hand hold a book on geometry and her right 
hold a book about reptiles and amphibians. Geralt, who held her by the hips, unwittingly 
knocked over another pile of books, he was too preoccupied to worry about the pages that 
rained down on them. 
Fringilla moaned uncontrollably, her head buried into the book Reflections on Inevitable 
Death. 
Fringilla moaned again. The witcher did not hear it because her thighs were tightly 
squeezing his ears. He knocked over The History of Wars and Sciences Needed for a Happy 
Life. He fought with the buttons and hooks of her dress, inadvertently reading the inscriptions 
on covers and spines of books. At the level of Fringilla's waist lay Breeding Animals, in close 
proximity to her lovely breasts was a hard critical publication about useless and corrupt civil 
servants, and below that an economic study called Economics and Science – How to create, 
distribute and consume wealth. 
Shelves swayed and columns of books collapsed like rocks in a strong earthquake. With a 
thud, from the shelf fell a first edition copy of De Larvis Scenicis et figuris comicis, followed 
by a conventional and well-known book about inventory release and commands of training 
troops and a book on the Heraldry of Jan de Attire adorned with the beautiful engravings. 
The witcher moaned, dropping more volumes to the floor with a kick from his leg. 
Fringilla leaned back and cried out, hitting with her heel a pile of books. A copy of 
Reflections and Meditations for Every Day of the Year, an anonymous and interesting work, 
somehow appeared on Geralt's back. 
Geralt read over her shoulder, finding out whether he wanted to or not, notes that had 
been written by a doctor named Albertus Rivus, in a book called Academia Cintensis, printed 
by the master typographer Johann Froben Junior in the second year of the reign of His 
Majesty King Corbertt. 
 Suddenly there was a silence in which only the faint sound of rustling apges could be 
heard. 
What should I do, Fringilla wondered, lightly touching the hard edges of Geralt's side and 
a copy of the Reflections on the Nature of Things. Make a suggestion? Or wait for him to 
make a suggestion? What would he think of me? But what if he doesn't make a suggestion? 

'Let's find a bed,' the witcher solved her dilemma. 'It's not right to treat books this way.' 
 
*** 
 
We found a bed, Geralt remembered, he rode straight into an alley and with a kick spurred 
into a gallop. We found the bed in her chambers in the alcove. We made love to each other as 
if obsessed, eagerly, greedily, as if after years of celibacy and as if celibacy was threatening 
again. 
We talked of many things. We told about ourselves very trivial truths. We told ourselves 
very beautiful lies. But those lies, even though they were lies, were not meant to be calculate 
or to deceive. 
With a strong kick, he forced Roach into a gallop directly towards a clump of roses 
covered by snow and forced her to jump. 
We made love. And we talked. And our lies were becoming more beautiful and 
increasingly false. 
Two months. From October to Yule. 
Two months of furious, greedy, violent love. 
Roach's horseshoes clattered on the palace courtyard of Beauclair. 
 
*** 
 
Quickly and quietly he walked through the corridors. No one saw him or heard him. 
Neither the Guardsmen quenching their boredom with chatter or the tired butlers. He did not 
even make the candle flames waver as he passed by them. 
He walked around the castle kitchens. But he did not stop or go in to join his companions, 
who at this late hour, had developed a taste for a jug of wine and something to eat. He stood 
in the darkness and listened. 
Angouleme was speaking. 
'This city is under a spell, all of Toussaint. A charm that hangs over the whole valley. 
And now on this particular palace. I wondered about Dandelion, I wondered about Geralt, but 
now it makes me kind of dizzy to be here and I feel a strange tingling... I've even found 
myself... Fuck, what did I tell you! We have to get out of here as quickly as possible!' 
'We must talk to Geralt,' muttered Milva. 'We must talk to him.' 
'Yes, talk to him,' Cahir said sarcastically, 'in one of those rare moments, where he is 
available. Hunting witches and monsters are the only activities that he has performed in the 
last two months.' 
'And you,' Angouleme snorted,' can only be caught while walking in the park playing 
with the baronesses. This is what happens in spellbound, Toussaint. Regis vanishes at night; 
my aunty had her Baron...' 
'Shut up, brat! And don't call me your aunty!' 
'Come, come!' Regis stepped between the two ladies. 'Girls, be at peace. Milva, 
Angouleme, don't argue. Hostility ruins, friendship builds. It is said that Her Ladyship the 
Duchess and likes Dandelion, her country, the palace, bread, and pickles. Would you like 
some wine?' 
Milva released a heavy sigh. 
'We have been here too long! Too long, I tell you, sitting here in idleness. Fooling 
around.' 
'Nicely put,' said Cahir. 'Very nice.' 
Geralt carefully moved away. As noiselessly as a bat. 
 

*** 
 
Quickly and silently he walked down the corridors. No one saw or heard him. Neither the 
guards nor the valets. Not even the candle flames flickered as he passes the chandeliers. A rat 
heard him and poked out its bearded nose. But it was not scared. He was known here. 
He went this way often. 
The bedroom smelled of spells, amber, rose and a woman sleeping. But Fringilla was not 
asleep. She sat on the bed and tossed back the covers; the sight charmed him and made him 
lose control. 
'You've finally arrived,' she said, stretching. 'Undress and come here quickly. Very, very 
quickly.' 
 
*** 
 
She went through the halls quickly and quietly. No one saw or heard her. Neither the 
soldiers who gossiped lazily with the guards or the footmen or the pages. Not even the candle 
flames flickered as she passed the chandeliers. A rat heard her and lifted up its hairy nose and 
followed her with its beady eyes. But it was not frightened. She was known here. 
She passed this way often. 
 
*** 
 
In the castle of Beauclair was a secret passage behind a door at the end of a chamber, 
which nobody knew about. Neither the current lady of the castle, the Duchess Anarietta, nor 
her ancestor, Ademarta, First Lady of the Castle. Neither the famous architect, Pierre 
Faramond who renovated the building from top to bottom, nor the master masons who 
worked on Faramond's project. The existence of the passage was not even known by the 
Chamberlain Le Goff, who was thought to know everything about Beauclair. 
The passage and the room, masked by a powerful illusion, were only known by the 
castles builders – Elves. Later, when the elves left the castle and were replaced by people, 
only a handful knew about the secret which was guarded closely by a small group of wizards 
from the princely family. Most knowledgeable of them all was Master of the Arcane, Artorios 
Vigo, a respected specialist in all kinds of illusion, whose young niece, Fringilla inherited her 
uncle's talent and also became a witch. 
Fringilla stopped in front of a bare wall between two columns decorated with a floral 
motif. With a whisper and a quick gesture, a false wall disappeared. Beyond was revealed a 
corridor which seemingly led to a dead end. At the end of the corridor, however, was another 
door masked by illusion. And behind this door was a dark room. 
Fringilla entered and without wasting time, started the tele-communicator. Oval mirrors 
which had stood dark started to brighten up the dark room. Through the mirror was revealed a 
hall, in which sat a round table surrounded by women. Nine women. 
'We are listening, Fringilla,' said Philippa Eilhart. 'Do you have any news?' 
'Unfortunately not,' replied Fringilla. 'Nothing since the last report. Nothing from any 
attempt at scanning.' 
'This is bad,' said Philippa. 'We expected you to find something. Tell us, has the witcher 
calmed down, at least? Can you keep him in Toussaint until May?' 
Fringilla was silent for a moment. She had not the slightest intention of telling the lodge 
that during the last two weeks the witcher had called her Yennefer twice – and at times, when 
she had every right to be called by her own name. However the lodge had a right to expect 
from her the truth. Sincerity. And some useful findings. 

'No,' she said at last. 'Probably not until May. But I will do everything in my power to 
keep him as long as possible.' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Korr, a monster from the species-rich family of Strigiformes (qv), depending on the area, also 
called Kourican, Korreds, Rutterkin, Rumpelstiltskin, Whirlers, or Mesmers. You can say one 
thing about it - that it is a fiend beyond compare. Such devilishly filthy and abhorrent carrion 
is it that we will neither remember nor write of its customs or even its appearance, for verily 
we say unto you: Any word is too good for this son of a bitch. 
 
Physiologus 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter Four 
 
 
The smell in the great pillared hall of Castle Montecalvo was a mix of old tapestries, smoky 
candles, and ten different kinds of perfume - ten specially compiled types of perfume that 
were used by the ten women around the oak table, seated in chairs with arms carved in the 
shape of sphinxes. 
Opposite Fringilla Vigo sat Triss Merigold in a bright blue, high-necked dress. Next to Triss 
sat Keira Metz, who remained in the shadows. Her large earrings held faceted citrines that 
flashed again and again with a thousand twinkles, attracting the eye. 
"Please continue, Miss Vigo," urged Philippa Eilhart. "We are in a hurry to hear the end of 
your story. And to take urgent steps." 
Philippa was - for once - not wearing any jewelry except a large cameo made of sardonyx 
that was fastened to her vermilion dress. Fringilla had heard the rumors already, she knew 
who had given her the cameo and whose profile it represented. 
Seated next to Philippa was Sile de Tancarville, in a dress of all black that sparkled with little 
diamonds. Margarita Laux-Antille wore burgundy colored satin and thick gold, without 
stones. Sabrina Glevissig, on the other hand, displayed a necklace, earrings, and her beloved 
finger rings - the onyx color matched her eyes and clothing. 
Closest to Fringilla were the two elves - Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean aep Sivney. The 
Daisy of the Valley usually looked regal, but today exceptionally so. Though neither her hair 
nor crimson gown displayed excessive pomp and her little tiara and necklace were made not 
of rubies, but modest, yet tasteful shells. Ida Emean, however, wore a dress of muslin and 
chiffon, which was decorated in autumnal shades and so fine and light that it waved around in 
the hardly noticeable breath of air the central heating produced like an anemone. 
Assire var Anahid aroused admiration, as usual in recent times, with her modest but 
distinguished elegance. Over the small, narrow neckline of her dark-green dress, the 
Nilfgaardian sorceress wore a gold chain and a single, gold framed emerald cabochon. Her 
manicured nails, which were painted a very dark green, gave the composition a truly magical 
touch of extravagance. 
"We are waiting, Miss Vigo," Sile de Tancarville said. "Time is short." 
Fringilla cleared her throat. "December came," she continued. "Then Yule, then the New 
Year. The witcher calmed down to the point where Ciri's name no longer showed up in every 
conversation. The monster hunting expeditions, which he regularly undertook, seemed to 
completely avail him. Well, maybe not completely ..." 
She trailed off. She thought she had seen Triss Merigold's blue eyes flash with hatred. But 
perhaps it had just been a reflection of the flickering candle flames. Philippa snorted and 
played with her cameo. 
"Please, there is no need for so much modesty, Miss Vigo. Here, you are among us. Among 
women who know that sex acts have purposes other than pleasure. We all use these means, 
when necessary. Please continue." 
"Even though he maintained the appearance of reticence, patience, and pride during the 
daytime," continued Fringilla, "at night he was completely under my power. He told me 
everything. He paid homage to my femininity, and extremely vigorously for his age, I must 
confess. And then he fell asleep. In my arms, with his lips on my breast. Looking for a 
replacement for the mother's love that he had never experienced." 
This time, she was sure it was not a reflection of the candle flame. Very well. Envy me if you 
please, she thought. Envy me. You have every reason to do so. 
"He was," she repeated, "completely under my power." 
 

*** 
 
"Come back to bed, Geralt. It is not even properly bright, damn it! " 
"I have an appointment. I have to ride to Pomerol." 
"I do not want you to ride to Pomerol." 
"I have an appointment. I've given my word. The steward of the estate will be waiting for me 
at the gate." 
"Your monster hunts are foolish and pointless. What do you want to prove by killing another 
monster from some cave? Your manhood? I know a better way. Come on back to bed. Do not 
you ride to Pomerol. At least not so soon. The steward can wait, is that not what stewards do? 
I want to make love to you." 
"Forgive me. I do not have time. I have given my word." 
"I want to make love to you!" 
"If you want to keep me company at breakfast, put something on." 
"You probably don't love me anymore, Geralt. Do you love me? Answer me!" 
"Wear that pearl-gray dress with the mink trim. It suits you very well." 
 
*** 
 
"He was completely under my spell, fulfilled my every wish," repeated Fringilla. "He did 
everything I asked of him. It was so." 
"We believe it was so," said Sile de Tancarville extremely dryly. "Please continue." 
Fringilla coughed into her fist. "The problem," she continued, "was his companions. The 
strange band that he named his company. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, who had seen 
me before and tormented himself to remember where. But he could not remember, because 
when I was last in Darn Dyffra, the ancestral home of his family, he was six or seven years 
old. Milva, who seemed to be a daredevil and proud girl, but who I twice caught hiding in a 
corner of the stables and crying. Angoul'me, a moody child. And Regis Terzieff-Godefroy. 
One type that I could not see through. The whole company had an influence on the witcher, 
one which I could not stop." 
Well, well, she thought, Look at them draw up their eyebrows. Look at them twist their 
mouths. Just wait. This is not the end of my story. You will hear of my triumph. 
"Every morning," she continued, "this whole company met in the kitchen, which was located 
in the basement of the palace of Beauclair. The chef liked them - who knows why. He always 
had something in store for them, so plentiful and so tasty that breakfast was usually two, 
sometimes even three hours long. I ate with them many times, alongside Geralt. So I know 
what kind of absurd conversations they used to hold." 
 
 
*** 
 
Two chickens walked around the kitchen, one black and the other colorful, gently scratching 
the floor with their clawed feet. They blinked at the breakfast company and picked up crumbs 
from the floor. 
Like every other morning, the company had gathered in the palace kitchen. The chef liked 
them, who knows why, and he always had something tasty for them. Today there were 
scrambled eggs, flour soup, stewed eggplant, rabbit pate, and veal sausages with red beets 
and goat cheese to top it all off. All of it was excellent and they ate quickly and quietly. Apart 
from Angoul'me, who only whetted her tongue. 

"I'm telling you, we should open a brothel here. After we've done what we need to do, we 
should come back here and set up a House of Pleasure. I've had a look around the city. They 
have everything. I counted nine barbers alone, and eight pharmacies. But they only have one 
whorehouse, and it's so small and shitty that I wouldn't even call it a whorehouse. No 
competition. We'll make it a luxurious brothel. Buy a multi-storey house with garden ..." 
"Angouleme, have mercy." 
"... exclusively for wealthy customers. I will be the Madame. I'm telling you, we will make 
the big money and live like the great masters. In the end, I will eventually be elected to the 
council, and then I will certainly not forget about you, because if they elect me, they elect 
you, and before you can provide yourselves ..." 
"Angouleme, please. Here, eat some bread with pate." 
For a moment there was silence. 
"What are you hunting today, Geralt? Hard work?" 
"Eye witnesses" - the witcher looked at his plate - "give conflicting descriptions. So it 
depends on whether it is a Molding, which is pretty hard work, or a Delichon, which is 
moderate, or Dudel, which is easy. Perhaps the work will even be too easy, because the last 
time the monster was seen was last year's Lammas. It may have absconded from Pomerol 
over the mountains." 
"If so, I wish him all the best," said Fringilla while gnawing on a goose bone. 
"What is up with Dandelion?" the witcher said suddenly, "I haven't seen him for so long that 
I draw all my knowledge of his activities from the satirical songs they sing in the city." 
"We know no more than you." Regis smiled with his mouth closed. "All we know is that our 
poet is on such familiar terms with the Princess Anarietta that he grants her, even in the 
presence of witnesses, a fairly familiar cognomen. He calls her his Little Weasel." 
"And he's right!" Angoul'me said with her mouth full. "That princess woman actually does 
kind of have a weasel nose. Not to mention all those teeth." 
Fringilla narrowed her eyes. "No one is perfect." 
"Forsooth." 
The chickens, one black and the other colorful, had become so bold that they began to peck at 
Milva's boots. The Archer swore and knocked them away with a powerful kick. 
Geralt watched her for a long time. Then he decided. "Maria," he said gravely, almost sternly. 
"I know that our conversations are not particularly serious and that jokes are not ordained. 
But you do not need to show us such a sour face. What is wrong?" 
"It's clear what's wrong," said Angoul'me. Geralt silenced her with a sharp look. Too late. 
"What the hell do you know then, eh?" Milva stood up abruptly, almost overturning her chair. 
"Damn you! You can kiss my ass, all of you, you understand me?" 
She grabbed her cup from the table, drank it, and then threw it to the floor without hesitation. 
Then she ran out of the room and slammed the door. 
"This is serious ..." Angouleme began after a moment, but this time the vampire silenced her. 
"The matter is very serious", he confirmed. "I would not, however, have expected such an 
extreme reaction from our archer. Such as one typically reacts when they get split up with, 
not when they do the splitting." 
"What are you talking about, damn it?" asked Geralt, unnerved. "Hey? Would someone mind 
telling me what this is about?" 
"The Baron Amadis de Trastamara." 
"The pockmarked hunter?" 
"The very same. He made a request of Milva. To join him on a three day hunt. He has invited 
her again and again for months ..." 
"The hunt" - Angoul'me brazenly flashed her teeth - "lasted two days. With overnight 
accommodations in a little hunting lodge, you know what I mean? I put my hand ..." 

"Be quiet, girl. Tell me, Regis." 
"He has formally and solemnly asked for her hand. Milva has rejected, apparently in fairly 
strong terms. The Baron, with the reason of youth, took her rejection to heart, was offended, 
and left Beauclair immediately. Milva has been running around ever since like she was 
poisoned." 
"We've been sitting here too long," muttered the witcher. "Too long." 
"And who says this?" The previously silent Cahir spoke up. "Who says this?" 
"Excuse me." The witcher stood up. "Let's talk about it when I get back. The steward of the 
Pomerol estate is expecting me. And punctuality is the courtesy of the witcher." 
 
*** 
 
After Milva's stormy departure, and after the witcher had also left, the rest of the company 
ate breakfast in silence. The two chickens ran around in the kitchen, one black and the other 
colorful, gently scratching the floor with their clawed feet. 
"I", Angoul'me finally broke the silence, as she lifted and passed a plate of toast to Fringilla, 
"I have got a problem." 
The sorceress nodded. "I understand. It will be okay. How long ago did you have your last 
menstrual period?" 
"What makes you say that?" Angouleme stiffened with a jerk that startled the chickens. 
"Nothing like that! It's about something completely different!" 
"So, go on." 
"Geralt wants to leave me here when he sets off again." 
"Whoa." 
"He says", snorted Angoul'me, "that he cannot bring me into danger, or some such nonsense. 
But I want to go with him ..." 
"Whoa." 
"Don't interrupt me, okay? I want to go with him, with Geralt, because with him I'm not 
afraid of being caught by the One-Eyed Fulk again, and here in Toussaint ..." 
"Angouleme," Regis interrupted her. "You are speaking in vain. Miss Vigo will listen to you, 
but she will do nothing about it. Only one thing you've said upsets her: the departure of the 
witcher." 
"Whoa" repeated Fringilla, turning to face him and narrowing her eyes. "Is that your favorite 
subject to allude to, Mr. Terzieff-Godefroy? The departure of the witcher? And when is he 
departing? May I ask that?" 
"Maybe not today or tomorrow," the vampire replied in a soft voice. "But certainly one day. 
Without hurting anyone." 
"I am not hurt," Fringilla parried coldly. "Assuming, of course, that you had me in mind. But 
what concerns you, Angoul'me, also concerns me. So I assure you that I will discuss the 
issue of leaving Toussaint with Geralt. I guarantee that the witcher will know my opinion on 
this matter." 
"Yes, of course you will," snorted Cahir. "How did I know that you would say just that, Miss 
Fringilla." 
The sorceress looked at him for a long time. 
"The witcher," she finally said, "Should not leave Toussaint. And no one who is well 
disposed towards him should persuade him to leave. Where could he go that is better than 
here? He swims in luxury. He has his monsters, which he hunts, earning quite a bit of money. 
His friend and companion is the favorite of the ruling Princess here, and the Princess herself 
also values him. Mainly because of the succubus that had plagued the alcoves. Yes, yes, 
gentlemen. Anarietta and all the well-born ladies of Toussaint are extremely pleased with the 

witcher. Because the succubus has indeed stopped its visits, as if cut off. The ladies of 
Toussaint have also put together a special bonus that will be deposited into the witcher's 
account with the Cianfanelli Bank in the near future. And multiply the small fortune that he 
already has there." 
"A very nice gesture on the part of the ladies." Regis did not lower his eyes. "And the reward 
is well deserved. It is not easy to cause a succubus to stop its visits. Trust me, Miss Fringilla." 
"Oh, I believe you. Speaking of which, are you aware that one of the palace guards claims he 
saw the succubus. At night, on the battlements of the Karoberta Tower. In the company of 
another ghost. Probably a vampire. Both demons were walking there, swears the guard, and 
they seemed friendly. Perhaps you know something of it, Mr. Regis? Can you explain it?" 
"No." Regis did not flinch. "I cannot. There are things between the heavens and earth that 
even philosophers cannot dream of." 
"Undoubtedly, there are such things," Fringilla confirmed with a nod of her black-haired 
head. "But with regards to the fact that the witcher is supposedly ready to leave - you must 
know more than me? Because, you see, he has not mentioned any such thing to me, and he 
usually tells me everything." 
"Sure," muttered Cahir. 
Fringilla ignored him. "Mr. Regis?" 
"No," the vampire said after a short silence. "No, Miss Fringilla, please rest assured. The 
witcher by no means gives us more affection and confidence than you. He does not whisper 
any secrets into our ears that he would hide from you." 
"How then" - Fringilla was quiet as granite - "can you make these declarations about his 
departure?" 
Once again, the vampire did not flinch. "Because it is like the youthful, charm filled 
expression of our lovely Angoul'me says: 'Eventually, there comes a time when you either 
have to shit or get off the toilet.' In other words ..." 
"Don't bother with the other words," Fringilla interrupted him sharply, "It was charming 
enough already." 
For a while there was silence. Both chickens, the black and colorful, walked around and 
pecked at what was left. Angoul'me wiped a smudge of red beet from her nose with her 
sleeve. The vampire played thoughtfully with a sausage link. 
"Thanks to me," Fringilla finally broke the silence, "Geralt has learned what few people know 
- Ciri's family tree and the secrets of its origin. Thanks to me, he knows these things that he 
had no idea about a year ago. Thanks to me he has information, and information is a weapon. 
Thanks to me and my protection from magical detection, he is protected from the enemy, 
including assassins. Thanks to me his knee no longer hurts and can bend again. Around his 
neck, he wears a medallion of my craftsmanship, which might not be as good as his original 
witcher's medallion, but nevertheless. Thanks to me and only me, he is ready for the spring 
and summer - he is informed, fed, healthy, and prepared to fight the enemy. If anyone of you 
here has done more for Geralt, given more to him, then he should say so. I'll willingly pay 
him tribute." 
No one spoke up. The chickens pecked at Cahir's boots, but the young Nilfgaardian ignored 
them. 
"Indeed," he said pointedly, "none of us has given more to Geralt than you, my lady." 
"How did I know that you would say just that?" 
"It's not about that, Miss Fringilla", the vampire began. The sorceress did not let him. 
"What's it about then?" She asked aggressively. "About the fact that he and I are together? 
About the fact that we have an emotional connection? About the fact that I do not want him 
to leave now? That I do not want him to decide based on guilt? The same feelings of guilt and 
atonement that drive you to depart?" 

Regis was silent. Cahir also said nothing. Angouleme looked around; she had obviously not 
understood much. 
"If it is written in the books of providence", the sorceress said after a while, "that Geralt will 
find Ciri, then it will happen. Regardless of whether the witcher sets off into the mountains or 
sits in Toussaint. Predestination overtakes humans. Not vice versa. Do you understand that? 
Do you understand, Mr. Regis Terzieff-Godefroy?" 
"Better than you think, Miss Vigo." The vampire turned the sausage link in his fingers. 
"However, you must excuse me, I do not accept that predestination is in some book, written 
by the hand of a great Demiurge, or the will of heaven, or the unalterable judgment of any 
providence. Rather, it is the result of many seemingly unconnected facts, events, and actions. 
I tend to agree with you that the predestination overtakes humans...and not only humans. 
However, I accept much less the view that it could not also be reversed. Because this view is 
a convenient fatalism. It is a paean to apathy and baseness on a feather bed and the charming 
warmth of a woman's womb. In short, to live in a dream. Life, Miss Vigo may be a dream, 
may end in a dream ... But it's a dream that you must actively dream. Therefore, Miss Vigo, 
the road awaits us." 
"Go ahead." Fringilla stood up, almost as violent as Milva had recently. "As you wish! Snow, 
cold, and predetermination await you on the passes. And the atonement that you so urgently 
seem to need. Go ahead! But the witcher is staying here. In Toussaint! With me!" 
"I believe," the vampire replied calmly, "You are mistaken, Miss Vigo. The dream you dream 
with the witcher is, I confess with a bow, magical and beautiful. However, any dream that we 
dream for too long becomes a nightmare. And from it we awake with a scream." 
 
*** 
 
The nine women who were seated at the large table in Castle Montecalvo stared fixedly at 
Fringilla Vigo. At Fringilla, who had suddenly begun to stutter. 
"Geralt rode on the morning of January eighth to the Pomerol estate. And he came back ... 
well ... on the eighth night, or on the ninth morning ... I do not know ... I'm not sure ..." 
"Keep it together" Sile de Tancarville gently requested. "Please, keep it together, Miss Vigo. 
And if any detail of the story is too embarrassing, then just move on." 
 
*** 
 
The colorful chicken ran around the kitchen, gently scratching the floor with its clawed feet. 
It smelled broth. 
The door opened with a bang. Geralt stormed into the kitchen. His windswept face displayed 
a blue bruise and purplish-black stripes of dried blood. 
"Come on, people, pack up," he announced without any unnecessary preliminaries. "We're 
leaving! In one hour, and not a moment later, I will see you all on the hill outside the city, 
where the column stands. With bags and baggage, in the saddle, ready for a long and difficult 
path." 
That was enough. It was as if they had been waiting for this message and had been ready for a 
long time. 
"Immediately," Milva cried, jumping up. "I'll be done in half an hour!" 
"Me too." Cahir let his spoon fall, stood up, and looked at the witcher carefully. "But I'd like 
to know what this is. A whim? A lover's quarrel? Or are we truly leaving?" 
"Really. Angoul'me, why are you making that face?" 
"Geralt, I ..." 

"Don't worry. I'm not leaving you behind. I've changed my mind. But you must be careful, 
brat; you must not leave my sight. Go on, I said, grab your saddlebags and pack. And 
individually, in order not to attract attention from the city to the column on the hill. We meet 
there in one hour." 
"Absolutely, Geralt," exclaimed Angoul'me. "Damn, finally!" 
In no time Geralt and the colorful chicken were all that remained in the kitchen. And the 
vampire, who was quietly stirring his broth with noodles. 
"Are you waiting for a special invitation?" Asked the witcher coldly. "Why are you still 
sitting here? Instead of packing the mule Draakula? And saying goodbye to the succubus?" 
"Geralt," Regis said calmly, taking a spoonful of soup from the tureen. "It will take me just as 
long to part with the succubus as it will for you to part with your black-haired girl. Assuming 
that you intend to say goodbye to her. But just between you and me: you can send the young 
people out to pack up their things with shouting and noise, but I deserve something more, for 
reasons of age. Please, grant me a few words of explanation." 
"Regis ..." 
"A statement Geralt. The sooner you start, the better. I'll help you. Yesterday morning, you 
met the steward of the Pomerol Winery at the city gate as agreed..." 
 
*** 
 
Alcides Fierabras, the black-bearded steward of the Pomerol Winery, who the witcher had 
met in the "Pheasantry" on the night before Yule, was waiting at the city gate with a mule; 
He, however, was dressed and equipped as they were travelling far, far away to the end the 
world, beyond the Solveiga Gate and the Elskerdeg Pass. 
"It really is not close," he replied to a snappy remark Geralt had made. "You, sir, come from 
the big wide world and think of our small Toussaint as a little hamlet; you think you could 
throw a hat from one boundary to the other. But you are wrong. The Pomerol Vineyard, 
where we indeed want to go, is a good ways away and we can be happy if we are there by 
lunch." 
"Perhaps," the witcher said dryly, "we shouldn't have arranged to leave so late." 
"Yeah, maybe." Alcides Fierabras stared at him and blew into his mustache. "But I didn't 
know you were one of the early birds. Because that is rare in nobles." 
"I'm not a noble. Let's be on our way, sir, we needn't lose any time in idle talk." 
"You took the words right out of my mouth." 
They rode through the city to shorten the path. Geralt initially wanted to protest - he was 
afraid of getting stuck in the crowded streets known to him. However, the steward Fierabras, 
as it turned out, knew both the city better and the days when there was no crowding on the 
streets. They rode easily and quickly. 
They rode into the market and passed the scaffold. And the gallows, decorated by a hanging 
body. 
"It's a dangerous thing" - the steward pointed out with a nod – "to forge rhymes and sing 
ditties. Especially in public." 
"Severe." Geralt instantly recognized what he meant. "In other places, the maximum penalty 
for libel is the pillory." 
"It depends on whom the libel is about, and if it is true", said Alcides Fierabras soberly. "And 
how it was rhymed. Our princess is kind woman and is loved by the people, but if someone 
provokes her ..." 
"Songs, as one of my friends likes to say, you cannot suffocate." 
"Songs, you cannot suffocate. But the singer, you can suffocate perfectly well." 

They crossed the city and rode out the Cooper's Gate, straight into the valley of the Blessure 
River, which cheerfully splashed and foamed in rapids. On the fields, snow lay only in gullies 
and depressions, but it was quite cold. 
A troop of knights passed them, certainly on their way to Cervantes Pass, to the border 
fortress of Vedette. The front of their shields and coats were very colorfully painted and 
embroidered with griffins, lions, hearts, lilies, stars, crosses, and other heraldic nonsense. 
Their hooves thundered, their banners fluttered, and their powerful voices sung an idiotic 
song about a thing or two that happens to a knight when he is awarded a bride. 
Geralt followed the party with his eyes. The sight of the knight-errants left him thinking of 
Reynart de Bois-Fresnes, who had just returned home from the service and was restoring his 
strength in the arms of his middle-class woman. Her husband, a merchant, hadn't returned 
home for days, probably held back by foaming rivers, forests full of wildlife, and other 
natural forces. The witcher could by no means imagine tearing Reynart from the arms of his 
mistress, but he honestly regretted that the contract with the Pomerol Winery wasn't set on a 
later date. He liked the knight and missed his company. 
"Let's ride, Mr. Witcher." 
"Let's ride, Mr. Fierabras." 
They followed the road up the river. The Blessure River twisted and meandered, but there 
were plenty of bridges, so they didn't need to make any detours. 
Steam rose from the nostrils of the horses and the mule. 
"Do you think the winter will last long, Mr. Fierabras?" 
"There was frost on Saovine. And the saying goes: "Frost on Saovine – better put your warm 
pants on.'" 
"I see. And your vines? Doesn't the cold harm them?" 
"It's been colder." 
They rode on in silence. 
"Look there," Fierabras pointed. "There in the valley lies the village of Fox Hollow. It's hard 
to believe, but their fields grow pots and pans." 
"What?" 
"Pots and pans. They arise from the bosom of the earth, of course, entirely naturally, with no 
human intervention. Pots and pans grow in Fox Hollow, as potatoes or beets grow elsewhere. 
All kinds and shapes." 
"Really?" 
"May I drop dead if it's not true. That's why Fox Hollow established a partnership with the 
village of Dudno in Maecht. For there, the earth blossoms with lids." 
"All kinds and shapes?" 
"You, Mr. Witcher, hit the mark." 
They rode on. Silently. The Blessure River roared and foamed over the stones. 
 
*** 
 
"And look there, Mr. Witcher. Those are the ruins of the ancient fortress of Dun Tynne. That 
castle has witnessed terrible things, if you believe the legend. Waltharius, called the Heavy 
Handed, tortured and viciously murdered his unfaithful wife, her lover, her mother, her sister, 
and her brother. And then he sat down and cried, no one knows why ..." 
"I've heard of it." 
"Have you been there then?" 
"No." 
"Ha. The legend has traveled far and wide. " 
"You, Mr. Steward, hit the mark." 

 
*** 
 
"And there" - the witcher pointed - "the pretty little tower behind the terrible castle? What is 
that?" 
"That? That is a temple." 
"For what god?" 
"Who remembers a thing like that." 
"Indeed. Who does nowadays." 
 
*** 
 
Around noon, they saw the winery. It was situated on the slopes of the valley of the Blessure 
River and covered by evenly cropped vines, now wizened and bald. On the summit of the 
highest hill, windswept towers rose towards the sky, belonging to the thick and round Castle 
Pomerol. 
Geralt noted with interest that the path leading to the castle was churned up by hooves and 
carriage wheels just as much as the highway. It was clear someone had been heavily using the 
road to the castle. He bit back his curiosity up to the moment that he saw a dozen huge, 
robust, canvas-covered wagons, like those used for long distance transport. 
"Merchants," said the steward in reply to his question. "Wine merchants." 
"Merchants?" Geralt was surprised. "How so? I thought the mountain passes are blocked by 
snow and Toussaint is cut off from the outside world. So how have the merchants reached 
here?" 
"For merchants", the steward Fierabras said profoundly, "there are no blocked passes or bad 
roads - at least not for those who take their job seriously. They, Mr. Witcher, have such a 
principle: When a goal beckons, a way must be found." 
"Indeed," Geralt said slowly, "an admirable principle, one which we should emulate. In all 
situations." 
"Without a doubt. But in truth, the fact of the matter is that some of the merchants have been 
stuck here since fall and cannot get out. But they don't hang their heads; they say 'Pah, now 
we will be the first ones here in the spring, before the competition shows up'. They call this 
principle: 'positive thinking.' " 
Geralt nodded. "One can hardly object to this principle. Though one thing still amazes me, 
Mr. Steward. Why are these merchants sitting out here and not in Beauclair? Is the princess 
not willing to grant them the right to hospitality? Does she perhaps have something against 
these merchants?" 
"Not at all", replied Fierabras. "The princess increasingly extends invitations to them, and 
they increasingly and politely reject them. And stay at the winery." 
"Why?" 
"They say that Beauclair is home to perpetual banquets, balls, feasts, revelry, and flirtation. 
They say those activities are just lazy, stupid, and a waste of time that could be spent thinking 
about business. They say you have to focus on what is really important. On the goal that 
beckons you, constantly. Incessantly. Without wasting any thoughts on frippery. Then and 
only then can you reach your goal." 
"Truly, Mr. Fierabras," the witcher said slowly. "I'm thankful for our common journey. Our 
conversations were very beneficial to me. Really." 
 
*** 
 

Contrary to the expectations of the witcher, they rode not to Castle Pomerol, but a little 
further onto the ridge behind the valley, where the next castle stood, a little smaller and much 
more neglected. This was Castle Zurbarràn. Geralt was looking forward to the prospect of 
getting to do something soon, because the dark, serrated battlements of ruined Zurbarràn 
looked like a textbook example of a haunted ruin, which was no doubt swarming with magic, 
marvels, and monsters. 
When they reached the courtyard however, instead of marvels and monsters he saw a dozen 
people at such magical pursuits as rolling barrels, planing boards, and nailing these boards 
together. It smelled of fresh wood, fresh mortar, a few less fresh cats, sour wine, and pea 
soup. The pea soup was served immediately. 
The wind and cold during their journey had made them hungry, and they ate quickly and 
silently. One of Steward Fierabras' subordinates in the company made it for them. It was 
served by two light-haired girls with braids a good three feet long. Both stared at the witcher 
so provocatively that he decided to eat as quickly as possible and get to work. 
Simon Gilka had not seen the monster. He knew its appearance exclusively from second hand 
stories. 
"It was black, ha, pitch black, and when it crawled across the wall, you could see the bricks 
through it. It was like a jelly, you know what I mean, Mr. Witcher, or maybe something like a 
glob of snot. But it had long legs, and a lot of them, eight or even more. And Yontek stood 
there, stood there and watched, until he finally wised up and screamed, 'Get away, Get 
yourself away!' and an exorcism too: 'Thee shalt croak, you son of a bitch!' And then the 
monster went darting! Whoosh, whoosh, up and away. Into the depths of the abyss and was 
gone. And the boys says: If there's a monster here, we want hazard pay, and if we don't get 
it, we'll complain to our union. Your union, I tell them, can go and ..." 
"When", interrupted Geralt, "was the monster was last seen?" 
"Three weeks ago. So just before Yule." 
The witcher looked at the steward. "You told me it hasn't been seen since Lammas." 
Alcides Fierabras blushed at the points that weren't covered by his beard. 
Gilka snorted. "Well, well, Mr. Steward, if you want to manage, you have to be around more 
often, you can't just sit at the office in Beauclair, polishing the chairs with your butt. I think 
..." 
"I'm not interested," Fierabras cut him off fiercely, "in what you think. Tell the story of the 
monster." 
"I've already told it. That's all there was." 
"There have been no victims? No one has been attacked?" 
"No. But last year a servant disappeared without a trace. Some said the monster dragged him 
to the depths and killed him. Others said that it certainly wasn't any monster, but that the 
servant had killed himself, because of debts and payments. The fact is that he played dice like 
the devil, and then he had a child with the miller's daughter, and she has since gone to court 
and the court ordered the servant to make support payments ..." 
"So," Geralt interrupted, "the monster hasn't attacked anyone? And no one has seen it since?" 
"No." 
One of the local girls pouring wine brushed Geralt's ear with her breast and winked 
encouragingly. 
"Let's go," Geralt said quickly. "There's no reason to dawdle and talk. Lead me to the cellar." 
 
*** 
 
Unfortunately, it turned out that Fringilla's amulet could not fulfill the hopes he had placed in 
it. Geralt had not believed for a moment that the polished chrysoprase could replace his 

silver, witcher's wolf medallion. Fringilla had not promised anything like that at all. 
However, she had assured him - with great conviction - that the amulet, once attuned to the 
mind of the wearer, could do different things, including warning the wearer of danger. 
But either Fringilla's magic had failed, or Geralt and the amulet had different views of what 
was dangerous and what was not. On his way to the cellar, the chrysoprase shrugged almost 
imperceptibly when a large orange cat ran in front of him, lifted its tail rebelliously, and 
defiled the yard. The cat must have received some signal from the amulet, because it jumped 
away and gave a penetrating meow. 
But when the witcher entered the cellar, the medallion started vibrating annoyingly, over and 
over, in the dry, neat, clean storage rooms where the only danger emanated from the large 
wine casks. Someone who lay down with no self-control and his mouth open under the casket 
might have been threatened with severe intoxication. But nothing more. 
On the other hand, the medallion did not flinch when Geralt left the still used part of the 
cellar, descended the stairs, and entered the long, deep tunnels. The witcher had long since 
realized that most of the vineyards of Toussaint had old mines below them. No doubt as the 
planted vines began to bear fruit and yield better profits, the exploitation of mines had been 
abandoned to create tunnels and corridors that could be used as wine cellars. The castles 
Pomerol and Zurbarràn stood on top of an old slate mine. It was swarming with tunnels and 
holes; it would only take a moment's inattention to end up at the bottom of a hole with 
broken bones. Some of the holes were covered by rotten boards that were so thoroughly 
coated in layers of shale dust that they were indistinguishable from the ground. The area was 
very dangerous so he needed the medallion to warn him. It didn't. 
It didn't even warn him when an indistinct gray figure jumped out from a pile of slate rubble 
ten steps in front of Geralt, kicked up dust with its claws and wildly wringing legs, gave a 
piercing wail, ran down the tunnel whistling and giggling, and disappeared into a gaping hole 
in the wall. 
The witcher cursed. The magic trinket reacted to orange cats, but it didn't respond to 
Gremlins. I'll have to talk with Fringilla about it, he thought as he walked towards the hole 
where the little creature had disappeared. 
The amulet twitched vigorously. 
A bit late, he thought. But immediately afterwards he thought better of it. Perhaps the 
medallion was not so stupid. The usual tactic of Gremlins was to flee and then ambush their 
pursuers with a blow from its sickle-sharp claws. The Gremlin waiting in the dark - that was 
what the medallion signaled. 
He waited and waited, holding his breath, pricking his ears alert. The amulet was quiet and 
lifeless on his chest. A dull, unpleasant odor emanated from the hole. But it was dead silent. 
And no Gremlin would have stayed silent for so long. 
Without thinking, he ducked into the hole and crawled on all fours, scraping his back against 
the rough rock. He did not travel very far. 
Something began to creak and snapped. Then the floor gave way and down fell the witcher - 
along with several hundred pounds of dust and debris. Luckily he didn't fall for long - it was 
not a bottomless pit, but a normal dungeon. He shot out like shit from the sewer pipe and 
smashed into a pile of rotten wood. He spit something out, shook the dust from his hair, and 
swore very blasphemously. The amulet shook incessantly, it trembled on his chest like a 
sparrow inserted under his shirt. The witcher resisted the impulse to tear it off and throw it 
away into the darkness, never to seen again. First, Fringilla would have been furious. Second, 
the chrysoprase was supposed to have other magical properties. Geralt hoped it would be 
more reliable at the others. 
As he started to stand, he groped a round skull. And he realized that what he had crashed into 
was by no means a pile of wood. 

He stood up and quickly studied the pile of bones. They were all human. All these people 
were in chains at the moment of their deaths, and had most likely been naked. Their bones 
were crushed and chewed. They might have already been dead when they were bitten. But he 
was not sure. 
A corridor led out of the tunnel, long and straight. The slate wall had been processed very 
smoothly – it no longer looked like a mine. 
It ended suddenly in a huge cavity, whose ceiling sank in the obscure darkness. The center of 
the cavern was a huge, black, bottomless pit, above which hung a dangerous, delicate-
looking, stone bridge. 
Water dripped from the walls, echoing. A cold stench blew from the abyss. The amulet was 
quiet. Geralt stepped onto the bridge, alert and focused, trying to stay away from the 
crumbling balustrades. 
After the bridge came another corridor. On the smooth processed walls, he noticed rusted 
torch brackets. There were also niches here; some were filled with small statues made of 
sandstone, but over the years the dripping water had worn them down to shapeless boulders. 
Plates and reliefs had also been inserted into the walls. He was able to identify this sturdier 
material better. Geralt saw a woman with a horned moon, a tower, a swallow, a boar, a 
dolphin, and a unicorn. 
He heard a voice. 
He stopped and held his breath. 
The amulet twitched. 
No, it was no illusion; it wasn't the crunch of slate rubble or the echo of dripping water. It 
was a human voice. Geralt closed his eyes and strained his hearing. He tried to pinpoint the 
noise. 
The witcher could have sworn that the voice came from the next niche, from behind a statue 
that was worn down, but not so much that it had lost the rounded shape of a woman. It stood 
equal to the height of his medallion. It flashed, and Geralt suddenly noticed a reflection in the 
wall. He vigorously hugged the woman with his arms, and sharply turned her. It creaked, then 
the whole niche turned on a steel hinge and revealed a spiral staircase. 
The voice sounded again, from the top of the stairs. Geralt did not hesitate. 
At the top he found a door that opened without any resistance, not even squeak. Behind the 
door was a small room with a vaulted ceiling. Four enormous brass tubes towered on the 
walls, their ends were expanded like trumpets. In the middle, between the openings of the 
tubes, stood an armchair, and on that armchair sat a skeleton. On its skull, slid down to its 
teeth, hung the remains of a beret. Its body carried fragments of once-rich clothes, now eaten 
away. Around its neck hung a gold chain. Its feet rested in high topped boots, strongly 
corroded by rats. 
 From one of the tubes came a sneeze, so loud and unexpected that the witcher almost 
jumped. Then someone blew their nose, and the amplified sound from the brass tube was 
downright hellish. 
"Bless you", came out of the tube. "That was some sneeze, Skellen." 
Geralt moved the skeleton out of the chair, without forgetting to first remove its gold chain 
and stick it in his pocket. Then he sat down at the listening space. At the opening of the tube. 
 
*** 
 
One of the men Geralt was eavesdropping on had a bass voice, deep and booming. When he 
spoke, the brass tube actually vibrated. 
"That was some sneeze, Skellen. Where did you get such a cold? And when?" 

"Not worth talking about", said the sneezer. "Some damned disease has caught me and 
adheres. As soon as I get rid of it, it comes right back. Not even magic helps." 
"Maybe you should change magicians?" Said the next voice, creaking like a rusty hinge. 
"Truly, this Vilgefortz can't yet point to any particularly great successes. I think ..." 
"Forget it," interjected one who stretched his syllables in a characteristic way. "That is not the 
reason we have organized this meeting here in Toussaint. In the middle of nowhere, in the ass 
of the world." 
"This ass of the world," said the sneezer, "is the only country I know of that does not have its 
own security service. The only corner of the empire that is not riddled with agents of Vattier 
de Rideaux. This principality is seen by all as a hilarious and perpetually drunken state 
operetta, which nobody takes seriously." 
"Such little countries," said the syllable stretcher, "have always been havens for spies, and 
their preferred venues. Therefore, they attract counterintelligence service and spies, 
eavesdroppers, and all sorts of private detectives." 
"That may have once been the case." said the sneezer "But not under the rule of a woman, 
which has lasted for almost one hundred years in Toussaint. I repeat, we are safe here. Here, 
no one will track us down or overhear us. We can act as merchants and calmly discuss the 
questions that are of vital interest for your princely graces. For your personal assets and 
estates." 
"Truly, I hate private interests!" ranted the creaking. "We are not here for personal reasons! I 
am concerned solely about the good of the Empire. And the good of the Empire, gentlemen, 
is in a strong dynasty! Therefore, it would be a great evil and harmful for the kingdom if any 
mongrel, any spoiled scion of bad blood ascends the throne, a descendant of the physically 
sick and morally inferior kings. No, gentlemen! I, a De Wette of the family De Wette, will 
not stand by idly and watch! In addition, my daughter was promised ..." 
"Your daughter, De Wette?" roared the booming bass voice. "And what about me? I, who at 
the time supported Emhyr in the fight against the usurper? It was my residence from which 
the cadets launched their assault on the palace! And what did that earn me! At that time, the 
swindler looked at my little Eilan, smiled graciously at her, complimented her, and took her 
behind a curtain, I know, to feel her tits. And now what - another empress! Such an affront? 
Such shame? The emperor of the eternal empire, who prefers the daughters of Cintra to those 
of the ancient families! What? He sits on the throne by my grace and dares to reject my 
Eilan? No, I will not tolerate it!" 
"Nor I," cried another voice, high and exalted. "He has disrespected me, too! Leaving my 
wife for this Cintran nobody!" 
"By a lucky coincidence," said the syllable stretcher, "the nobody has been promoted into the 
afterlife. As follows the report of Mr. Skellen." 
"I've listened to this report very attentively," said the creaky, "and I've concluded it follows 
that the nobody has simply disappeared. And if she has simply disappeared, then she may yet 
reappear. Because she disappeared and reappeared several times last year! Truly, Mr. Skellen, 
you have disappointed us. You and your magician, this Vilgefortz!" 
"But now is not the right moment, Joachim!" said the bass "Now is not the time to blame 
each other and to accuse, to drive wedges between us! We must be strong and united. And 
determined. Therefore, it is unimportant whether the Cintran is alive or not. An emperor who 
insults the old families with impunity once, will continue to do so in the future! The Cintran 
has disappeared? Then in a few months he can present an empress of Zerrikanian or 
Sangwebarian origin! No, by the Great Sun, we cannot let him!" 
"Truly, we cannot! Right you are, Ardal!" said the creaky. "The Emreis dynasty has been a 
disappointment ever since they took the throne. Each moment Emhyr sits on the throne does 

the empire harm, truly. And there is someone else who could sit the throne. The young 
Voorhis ..." 
A loud sneeze rang out like a trumpet. 
"Constitutional monarchy", said the sneezer. "It is high time for a constitutional monarchy, a 
progressive order. And then democracy ... a government of the people ..." 
"Emperor Voorhis," repeated the bass voice with emphasis. "Emperor Voorhis, Stefan 
Skellen. He will be married with my daughter Eilan, or with one of Joachim's. And then I will 
be the Chancellor of the Crown and De Wette will be the Field Marshal. And you, Stefan - 
the Foreign Minister and a count. If you abandon your idea of granting titles and offices to 
the peasants. What?" 
"Forgot about historical development," the sneezer's voice said soothingly. "For the moment, 
at least. First, let me draw Your Excellency Chancellor aep Dahy's attention to the person of 
Prince Voorhis - mainly the fact that he is a man of iron character, proud and stubborn, who 
will be difficult to influence." 
"If I can make a comment," the syllable stretcher came forward to speak. "Prince Voorhis has 
a son, the little Morvran. He is a far better candidate. First, he has a better claim to the throne, 
both on his fraternal side and maternal side. Second, he is a child, so the Regency Council 
will rule in his place. So, us." 
"Nonsense! We will deal with the father! We will find a way!" said the bass. 
"We push," suggested the exalted, "my wife under him!" 
"Be still, Count Broinne. That is not what we are talking about." said the creaky "Gentlemen, 
we should discuss other matters, truly. I would like to point out that Emhyr var Emreis still 
prevails." 
"Of course", agreed the sneezer and trumpeted into his handkerchief. "He lives and reigns. He 
is at his peak, both physically and mentally. The latter, especially, cannot be disputed, after 
he has gotten rid of both your highnesses - along with any troops that would have been 
faithful to you. How will you accomplish a revolution, my Lord Prince Ardal, if you have to 
spend each moment overseeing the Eastern Division of the army in battle? And Prince 
Joachim will probably have to be with his troops in the Verden Special Operational Group." 
"Spare me the tips, Stefan Skellen." said the creaky. "And pulling that face only makes you 
look similar to your magician Vilgefortz in your imagination. And you should know, Owl, 
that if Emhyr really does get suspicious, it will be because of you - you and Vilgefortz. Admit 
it, you tried to catch the Cintran and buy Emhyr's favor with her? Now that the girl is dead, 
you no longer have anything to offer, right? Emhyr would quarter you, truly. You will not 
raise your hand against us, neither you nor the magician with whom you have allied 
yourself!" 
"No one of us will raise our hands, Joachim," put in the bass. "We need to look the truth in 
the face. We are in no better position than Skellen. The circumstances have brought us 
together. We are all in the same boat now." 
"But the Owl was the one who put us in this boat!" shouted the creaky "Why do we have to 
act secretly now? Emhyr knows everything! Vattier de Rideaux's agents search the whole 
empire for the Owl. And he has gotten rid of us, truly, sent us to war!" 
"Exactly", the syllable stretcher, "And you should take advantage of that. I can assure you 
gentlemen, everyone is fed up with the war currently underway. The army, the common 
people, and especially the merchants and entrepreneurs. The mere fact that the war is over 
will cause joy throughout the entire empire, regardless of how the war ends. Gentlemen, 
military leaders influence the course of the war, so, if I may say so, the end is always within 
reach. What is easier than to taking credit as heroes for ending an armed conflict in victory? 
And in case of defeat, as men who, sent by providence, negotiated an end to the bloodshed?" 

"True," said the creaking after a while. "By the Great Sun, that is true. You're right, Mr. 
Leuvaarden." 
"Emhyr," said the bass, "wrapped the rope around his neck when he sent us to the front." 
"Emhyr," said the exalted, "is still alive, my lord Prince. He is alive and doing well. We do 
not want to split the skin of the bear." 
"No," said the bass. "Not before we kill the bear." 
 
*** 
 
The silence lasted a long time. 
"So an assassination attempt. Death." 
"Death." 
"Death!" 
"Death. It is the only solution. Emhyr has followers as long as he lives. When Emhyr dies, 
everyone will support us. The aristocracy will side with us, because we are part of the 
aristocracy, and the power of the aristocracy lies in solidarity. A significant part of the army 
will be on our side, especially the officer corps, who still remember Emhyr's purges after the 
defeat of Sodden. The people will be on our side ..." 
"Because the people are ignorant, stupid, and easy to manipulate," Skellen finished the 
sentence, after he had himself a sneeze. "You need only 'Hurrah!' and make a speech from 
the senate steps promising to open the prisons and cut the taxes." 
"You are absolutely right, Owl," said the syllable stretcher. "Now I know why you shout so 
loudly for democracy." 
"I warn you," creaked the man they called Joachim, "that everything will not go as smoothly 
as it sounds, gentlemen. Our whole plan is based on the death of Emhyr. But we must not 
close our eyes to the fact that Emhyr has many followers, he has the units in the main army, 
and he has a fanatical guard. It will not be easy to pass through the Imperial Guard and strike 
at the Emperor, because, have no illusions, they will fight to the death." 
"And here," declared Stefan Skellen, "Vilgefortz offers us his help. We will not have to 
besiege the palace, and we will not have to fight through the Imperial Guard. The thing can 
be done by a single assassin with magical protection. As in Dreiberg, just before the mages 
coup on Thanedd." 
"King of Radovid of Redania." 
"Yes." 
"Vilgefortz has as an assassin?" 
"Yes. To prove our trust, gentlemen, I will tell you who it is. The sorceress Yennefer, who 
we've imprisoned." 
"Imprisoned? I've heard that Yennefer worked with Vilgefortz willingly." 
"She is his prisoner. Bewitched and hypnotized, programmed like a golem, she will execute 
the assassination. Then she will commit suicide." 
"Some magical witch doesn't quite suit me," said the one who extended the syllables, 
extending them even more out of sheer disgust. "A hero would be better, a blazing champion 
of an idea, an avenger ..." 
"An avenger" interrupted Skellen. "Fits like a glove, Mr. Leuvaarden. Yennefer will avenge 
the suffering that was inflicted by the tyrant. Emhyr has persecuted and driven to death her 
girl, an innocent child. This cruel tyrant, this pervert, has persecuted and murdered children 
instead of taking care of empire. Therefore, he will be overtaken by the avenging hand ..." 
"I", announced Ardal aep Dahy's bass voice, "I like it very well." 
"Me too," agreed to Joachim De Wette. 

"Wonderful!" shouted the eccentric Count Broinne. "For the rape of foreign women, the 
avenging hand will overtake the tyrant and pervert. Wonderful!" 
"One more thing," said Leuvaarden, stretching his syllables. "To guarantee your trust, Lord 
Skellen, I'll ask you to please betray to us the whereabouts of Mr. Vilgefortz." 
"Gentlemen, I ... I cannot ..." 
"That is why it would be a guarantee. A pledge of the sincerity and devotion to the cause." 
"You need not fear betrayal, Stefan," added aep Dahy. "None here will betray you. This is a 
paradox. In other circumstances, someone among us might even try to buy his life by 
betraying the rest. But all of us know only too well that they would buy nothing with the 
betrayal. Emhyr var Emreis does not forgive. He cannot. Instead of a heart he has a lump of 
ice. And therefore, all will be killed." 
Stefan Skellen no longer hesitated. "Okay," he said. "As a pledge of sincerity. Vilgefortz is 
hidden at the ..." 
 
*** 
 
The witcher sat at the opening of the tube and clenched his fists until they hurt. He strained 
his hearing. And his memory. 
 
*** 
 
The witcher's doubts concerning Fringilla's amulet were unjustified and vanished in a 
moment. When he returned the great cavern and approached the stone bridge over the abyss, 
the medallion began to jerk on his neck and struggle, not like a sparrow, but more like a large 
and powerful bird. Let's say, a crow. 
Geralt froze. He calmed the amulet. He did not make the slightest movement, so that no 
rustle, not even a breath, could deceive his hearing. He waited. He knew that on the other side 
of the abyss, beyond the bridge, there was something, something that was lurking in the dark. 
He did not rule out that it could also be concealed behind his back, and that the bridge might 
be a trap. He was not going to walk into this trap. He waited. And not in vain. 
"Hail, Witcher," he heard. "We are waiting for you here." 
The voice that came out of the darkness sounded strange and alien. But Geralt had heard 
voices like it more than once, he knew them. Thus spoke beings that were not used to 
communicating with the aid of articulate speech. Although they were able to use the 
apparatus of the lungs, diaphragm, trachea, and throat, these creatures could not use 
completely the articulation apparatus, even though their lips, palate, and tongues were built 
very similar to humans. Such beings accentuated their spoken words not only strangely and 
proudly, but also with sounds that are uncomfortable to the human ear - hard and ugly 
barking or soft and slimy hissing. 
"We are waiting for you here," repeated the voice. "We knew that you would come if we fed 
you with rumors. That you would come crawl under the earth, to search, to hunt, to track, to 
kill. But you will not leave here. You will never again see the sun that is so dear to you." 
"Show yourself." 
In the darkness beyond the bridge, something moved. The darkness seemed to aggregate in 
one place and took on an almost human form. The creature seemed to never remain in the 
same position or at the same location for a moment; it changed it by using faster, more 
nervous, blurred motion. The witcher had seen such creatures before. 
"A Korr," he stated calmly. "I should have expected to see the likes of you here. It's a miracle 
that I didn't find you earlier." 

"Take a look at you." The unnatural voice of the creature sounded mocking. "In the dark, and 
still you recognized me. And do you recognize that? And that? And that?" 
From the darkness emerged three more creatures, silently as ghosts. One, who had been 
hiding behind the Korr's back, also had the general shape and appearance of a humanoid, but 
it was more stocky, hunched, and ape-like. Geralt knew it was a Killmouli. 
The other two monsters were hiding, as he had correctly guessed, behind the bridge, ready to 
cut off his retreat if he had stepped onto the bridge. The first, on the left, resembled a giant 
spider, it stood in place while flexing its many legs. It was a Molding. The last creature 
reminded him of a candelabra, it liked something that had jumped straight out of the broken 
slate wall. Geralt could not say what it was. No such monster was recorded in the witcher 
books. 
"I want no quarrel with you", he said, and putting a little hope in the fact that the creatures 
had begun with conversation, rather than just going for his jugular in the dark. "I want no 
quarrel with you. But if it comes to that, I will defend myself." 
"We have taken that into account," the Korr said, hissing. "That is why we are four. That is 
why we have lured you here. You poison our lives, fucking witchers. The most beautiful 
holes in this part of the world, wonderful places to hibernate. We've spent the winter here 
almost since the beginning of time. And now you show up here to prey on us, you wretch. In 
order track us, hunt us, and kill us for money. But no more. Not from you." 
"Listen, Korr ..." 
"Politely," snarled the creature. "I do not tolerate insolence." 
"So how am I to address you ...?" 
"Mr. Schweitzer." 
"Well, Mr. Schweitzer," continued Geralt, seemingly obedient, "here is the thing. I have, I 
will not hide it, come here as a witcher with a witcher's job. I propose to let that subject rest. 
However, something happened in this cave, something that has changed the situation 
diametrically. I've learned something unusually important for me. Something that can change 
my whole life." 
"And what will follow from this?" 
"I need" - Geralt was a model of composure and patience - "to immediately get to the surface 
and to immediately set off for a long journey, without the slightest delay. A journey from 
which there might be no return. I do not think I will ever ... return to this area ..." 
"Trying to buy you your life, witcher?" hissed Mr. Schweitzer. "No use. You ask in vain. 
We've got you in a bind and will not let you out. We will kill you and think not only of 
ourselves, but also of our other comrades. We will kill you, if I may say so, for both our and 
their freedom." 
"I'll not only never come back to this area", Geralt continued patiently, "but will give up all 
my work as a witcher. I will never kill any of you ..." 
"You're lying! You lie in fear!" 
"But," - Geralt could not be interrupted this time - "I must, as I said, get outside, immediately. 
So you have two choices. The first: You believe in my sincerity, and I get out of here. The 
second: I leave behind your corpses." 
"The third," growled the Korr, "your corpse is left behind." 
The witcher removed his sword from the scabbard on his back with a hiss. 
"It will not be the only one," he said, unmoved. "Certainly not the only one, Mr. Schweitzer." 
The Korr was silent for a while. The Killmouli, who still stood behind his back, rocked back 
and forth and growled a little. The Molding bent and stretched its legs. The Candelabra had 
changed shape. Now it looked like a crooked little tree with two large, phosphorescent eyes. 
"Give us," finally said the Korr, "proof of your sincerity and your good will." 
"How?" 

"Your sword. You claim that you will cease to be a witcher. A sword makes a witcher. Throw 
it into the abyss. Or break it. Then we let you out." 
Geralt stood there motionless for a moment, only the water dripping from the ceiling and 
walls broke the silence. Then he slowly placed the sword vertically and deeply into a crevice. 
And broke the blade with a powerful kick of his boot. The sword burst with a sighing sound 
that echoed in the depths. 
The water dripped from the walls, ran them down like tears. 
"I cannot believe it," the Korr said slowly. "I cannot believe that someone could be so 
stupid." 
They all rushed at him, instantly, without a cry or a command. Mr. Schweitzer was the first to 
over the bridge - with stretched claws and bared fangs, which even a wolf would not have 
been ashamed of. 
Geralt approached it, whereupon he turned and struck it in the hip, the lower cheek, and its 
neck, renting its throat. The next moment he was on the bridge and slashed off one of the 
Killmouli's wrists with a blow. He doubled over and threw himself on the ground, just in 
time, because the Candelabra flew over him, grazing his jacket with its paws. The Molding 
jumped in front of witcher, thin legs whirling like a windmill. A swipe from one of its paws 
hit him on the side of the head; Geralt danced, made a feint, and hit with a sweeping blow. 
However, the Molding jumped again, but missed him. It landed on the railing and he pushed 
it, along with a hail of stones, into the abyss. Until then it had not made the slightest sound, 
but now that it fell into the abyss, it howled. It was a long time before the howling ceased. 
They attacked from two sides - the Candelabra on one, and the blood soaked Killmouli on the 
other, which had managed to stand up in spite of its injuries. The witcher jumped on the small 
stone railing, shaking the whole bridge. He balanced out and was now located beyond the 
reach of the Candelabra's clawed paws, and behind the Killmouli. The Killmouli had no 
neck, so Geralt gave him a blow to the temple. But the monster's head was like iron, so he 
had to strike a second time to finish it. It took him a split second too long. 
He received a blow to the head, pain flared in his skull and into his eyes. He spun around, 
covered himself with a large display of defense, and felt his blood gushing beneath his hair, 
trying to understand what had happened. After he avoided - miraculously - the second blow 
of the claws, he understood. The Candelabra had changed shape - it now attacked with almost 
impossibly long legs. 
That brought a disadvantage. Namely, imbalance and a shifted center of gravity. The witcher 
ducked under its feet and shortened the distance. The Candelabra saw what was going on, 
threw itself back like a cat, and stretched up on its hind paws, which were also reinforced 
with claws. Geralt jumped over it, cutting it mid-jump. He felt his blade cut through the body. 
He ducked, spun around, struck again, and sank to one knee. The creature screamed violently 
and quickly lowered its head, full of teeth, to the height of the witcher's chest. Its large eyes 
glowed in the dark. Geralt pushed it back with a sharp blow of his sword pommel, and made 
a strike at close range that separated half of its skull. Even without that half, this strange 
creature not recorded in the witcher books snapped at him with its teeth for another dozen 
seconds. 
 Then it died with a horrible, almost human sigh. 
The Korr lay in a pool of blood and twitched convulsively. 
The witcher stopped in front of him. "I cannot believe," he said, "that someone could be so 
stupid to fall for such a simple illusion as the broken sword." 
He wasn't sure whether the Korr was conscious enough to understand him. But basically, he 
didn't care. 
"I warned you," he said as he wiped the blood trickling down his cheek. "I warned you that I 
needed get out of here." 

Mr. Schweitzer began to tremble violently. He gasped, whistled, and creaked. Then he was 
quiet and did not move again. 
Water dripped from the ceiling and walls. 
 
*** 
 
"Are you satisfied now Regis?" 
"Now, yes." 
"Well, then." The witcher stood up. "Go on and pack your things. But be quick." 
"It will not take me long. Omnia mea mecum porto." 
"What?" 
"I do not have much luggage." 
"All the better. Meet me in front of the city in half an hour." 
"I'll be there." 
 
*** 
 
He had underestimated her. She had caught him. He only had himself to blame. Instead of 
hurrying, he should have ridden Roach out of the back of the palace, from the larger stables 
that were used by knights-errant, servants, and the staff, where his company had their horses. 
He had rushed and by habit had used the Princess' stable. And he should have guessed that 
she would be waiting in the royal stables. 
She paced from wall to wall, churning up the straw. She wore a short lynx fur, a white satin 
blouse, a black skirt, and high riding boots. The horses snorted, they could feel the anger 
radiating from her. 
"Oh, please," she said, grabbing the riding whip in his hand. "You are leaving! Without 
saying goodbye. Because a letter on a table is certainly not a goodbye. Not after what's united 
us. I can just imagine how your behavior is explained and justified by unusually weighty 
arguments." 
"It will be explained and justified. Sorry, Fringilla." 
"Sorry, Fringilla" she repeated, twisting her mouth furiously. "How scarce, how cautious, 
nearly laconic - what sense of style. I bet the letter you left for me is edited just as elegantly. 
Without undue waste in terms of ink." 
"I must go," he squeezed out. "You can imagine why. And for whom. Please forgive me. I 
was planning to sneak away in secret, quietly, because ... I do not want you trying to ride with 
us." 
"There you worried needlessly," she said emphatically as she bent the whip into a loop. "I 
would not ride with you, even if you begged me from your knees. Oh no, witcher. Ride alone, 
die alone, freeze to death in the passes alone. I have no obligation to Ciri. And to you? Do 
you know how many people beg for this, what you have? What you now shove aside, throw 
away with contempt?" 
"I'll never forget you." 
"Oh," she hissed. "You have no idea how much I desire to make sure of that. If not with 
magic, then with this whip!" 
"You wouldn't." 
"You're right, I wouldn't. I couldn't. I'm behaving like an abandoned and spurned lover. 
Classic. I'll accept it with my head held high. With pride and dignity. I'll bite back my tears. 
Then I'll cry into my pillow. And then I let myself be with another!" 

Towards the end she almost shouted. 

He said nothing. She was also silent. 
"Geralt," she finally said in a very different voice. "Stay with me." 
"I think I love you," she said when she saw that he hesitated before answering. "Stay with 
me. I beg you. I've never asked that of someone and do not think I'll ever do it again. I beg 
you." 
"Fringilla" he replied after a while. "You're a woman that a man could only dream of. It is my 
fault, entirely my fault, that I am not a dreamer by nature." 
"You," she said, biting her lip, "are like a fish hook, which, once stuck, can only be uprooted 
together with blood and flesh. Well, I myself am guilty, I knew what I was doing when I 
began this dangerous game. Luckily I also know how to deal with the consequences. In this 
regard, I have more than other women." 
He said nothing. 
"Besides," she added, "a broken heart, while it hurts much more than a broken arm, also heals 
much, much faster." 
Again he said nothing. 
Fringilla looked at the bruise on his cheek. "What about my amulet? Does it work well?" 
"It is simply fabulous. Thank you." 
She nodded. 
"Where do you ride?" She asked in a completely different voice, in a very different tone. 
"What did you learn? You know where Vilgefortz is hiding, don't you?" 
"Yes. Please do not ask me to tell you. I will not." 
"I'll have that information. One way or the other." 
"Really?" 
"I have a message", she stated, "that is very valuable. And for you, simply priceless. I will 
sell it to you in exchange for ..." 
"For a clear conscience," he finished the sentence for her. He looked into her eyes. "For the 
trust that I have given you. A moment ago you spoke of loving me. And now we begin to talk 
of exchanges?" 
She was silent for a long time. Then they fought fiercely for the whip they both were holding. 
"Yennefer." she said quickly, "The one whose name you've mentioned a few times to me at 
night, in moments of ecstasy, has not ever betrayed you or Ciri. She was not an accomplice to 
Vilgefortz. She fearlessly undertook an unprecedented risk to save Cirilla. She suffered a 
defeat and fell into Vilgefortz's hands. She was surely forced by torture to perform the 
magical detection that took place last year. Whether she still lives is not known. That's all I 
know. I swear it." 
"Thank you, Fringilla." 
"Go." 
"I trust you," he said without leaving. "And I will never forget what happened between us. I 
trust you, Fringilla. I will not stay with you, but I think I loved you too ... in my way. I ask 
that you keep secret what you are about to hear. Vilgefortz's hiding place is ..." 
"Wait," she interrupted. "Tell me later, after you say goodbye to me. A proper goodbye. Not 
with a note, not with stammering apologies. Say goodbye to me, as I want." 
She took off her lynx fur and laid it on a pile of straw. With a violent movement she tore 
open her blouse, she wore nothing underneath. She plopped down on the fur, taking Geralt 
with her. Geralt grabbed her neck, pulled up her skirt, and suddenly realized that there was no 
time to take off his gloves. Fortunately, Fringilla was not wearing any gloves. Or underwear. 
He was even more fortunate that she was not wearing spurs, for immediately afterwards the 
heels of her riding boots were literally everywhere – there was no telling what might have 
happened if she had been wearing spurs. 
When she cried, he kissed her. Stifling her cry. 

The horses, sensing both of their raging passions, neighed, stomped, and pushed against the 
walls, swirling the dust and hay. 
 
*** 
 
"Castle Rhys-Rhun, in Nazair, on the shores of Lake Muredach" Fringilla Vigo concluded 
triumphantly. "That is Vilgefortz's hideout. I got it out of the witcher before he rode away. 
We have enough time to pre-empt him. He cannot possibly be there before April." 
The nine women gathered in the great pillared hall of Castle Montecalvo nodded, looking at 
Fringilla with appreciative eyes. 
"Rhys-Rhun" repeated Philippa Eilhart while she bared her teeth in a predatory smile and 
played with the sardonyx cameo pinned to her dress. "Rhys-Rhun in Nazair. See you soon, 
Mr. Vilgefortz ... See you soon!" 
"If the witcher gets there," hissed Keira Metz, "he will find debris that won't even smell burnt 
anymore." 
"And neither will the dead bodies." Sabrina Glevissig smiled charmingly. 
"Bravo, Miss Vigo" Sile de Tancarville gave her a nod - a gesture that Fringilla would never 
have expected of the famous magician. "Perfect Work." 
Fringilla bowed her head. 
"Bravo," repeated Sile. "About three months Toussaint ... But it was well worth it." 
Fringilla Vigo let her eyes wander around the sorceresses sitting at the table. Around Sile, 
Philippa, and Sabrina Glevissig. Around Keira Metz, Margarita Laux-Antille, and Triss 
Merigold. Around Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean, whose intensely painted elven eyes 
expressed nothing. Around Assire var Anahid, whose eyes were restlessness and full of 
anxiety. 
"That it was," she admitted. 
Perfectly sincere. 
 
*** 
 
The dark blue sky was gradually turning black. A strong, icy wind blew through the 
vineyards. Geralt buttoned up his wolf's fur clothing and wrapped a wool scarf wound around 
his neck. He felt very well. The lovemaking had, as usual, brought him up to peak physical, 
mental, and spiritual condition, wiping out all traces of doubt, making his mind clear and 
lively. He only regretted only that he would not experience this wonderful panacea again for 
a long time. 
The voice of Reynart de Bois-Fresnes tore him from his thoughts. 
"Bad weather is coming," the knight-errant said as he stared into the east, from whence the 
wind blew. "Hurry. If this wind brings snow, if it manages to catch you on the passes, then 
you are sitting in a trap. The only thing you can do then is pray to the gods - both those that 
you worship and those you've only heard of - for the snow to thaw." 
"We understand." 
"The Sansretour will lead you the first few days, keep to the river. You will ride past a 
trapper trading post and come to a point where a tributary flows into the Sansretour from the 
right. Do not forget, from the right. Its course will show you the way to Malheur Pass. If, 
with the help of the gods, you manage to conquer the Malheur, do not rejoice too much, you 
still have the Sansmerci and Mortblanc passes in front of you. You have to overcome both, 
then you can descend into the Sudoth Valley. Sudoth has a warm micro-climate, almost like 
Toussaint. But the soil is so poor, no wine will grow there ..." 
He broke off embarrassed, as he noticed the disapproving glances. 

"Okay," he croaked. "To the point. The town of Caravista is located at the end of the Sudoth. 
My cousin lives there, Guy de Bois-Fresnes. Visit him and refer to me. If it turns out that he 
has died, or is an imbecile, then remember that the next step of your journey is towards the 
plains of Mag Deira and the valley of the Sylte River. From there, Geralt, follow the map you 
had the cartographers in town draw you. While we are discussing cartography - I do not quite 
understand why you asked him about the castles..." 
"Forget it, Reynart. Nothing like happened. You heard nothing and saw nothing. Even if they 
tighten you up on the rack. Do you understand?" 
"I understand." 
"A horseman," warned Cahir, subduing his erupting stallion. "A rider approaches from the 
palace, at a gallop." 
"If there is only one" Angoul'me said with a big smile, stroking the axe hanging from her 
saddle, "it will hardly be a problem." 
The rider on the galloping horse turned out to be Dandelion. And, wonder of wonders, the 
horse turned out to be Pegasus, the poet's gelding, who was not used to the sharp galloping 
and did not appear to enjoy it. 
"Well," the troubadour said, so out of breathe that it looked like he had carried the gelding 
instead of the other way around. "Well, I did it. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to catch you." 
"Don't tell me you're coming along with us now." 
"No, Geralt" - Dandelion bowed his head - "I'm not coming along. I'm staying here in 
Toussaint, with Weasel. That is, with Anarietta. But I had to say goodbye to you. Wish you 
luck on your way." 
"Thank the princess for everything. And find a justification for us leaving so suddenly, and 
without saying goodbye. Explain it somehow." 
"You took a chivalrous vow, and now you must fulfill it. Everyone in Toussaint, including 
Little Weasel, will understand that. But here ... take this. This will be my contribution." 
"Dandelion" - Geralt took a bag from the poet - "we do not suffer lack of money. It isn't 
necessary ..." 
"This will be my contribution," repeated the troubadour. "Cash never hurts. Plus, it's not mine 
- I took these ducats from Little Weasel's privy purse. Why are you looking at me like that? 
Women don't need money. And why should they? They don't drink, don't roll dice - women 
are condemned, they do it to themselves. So, it's all good! Now ride off, before I start to cry. 
And when it's over, you have to stop by Toussaint, come back to tell me everything. And I 
will paint Ciri. Do you promise, Geralt?" 
"I promise." 
"Well, it's all good." 
"Wait." Geralt turned his horse, rode close to the poet, and removed a secret letter from his 
jacket. "See that this letter comes to the right place ..." 
"Fringilla Vigo?" 
"No. Dijkstra." 
"Why, Geralt? And how am I supposed to do that?" 
"Find a way. I know you can do it. And now, take care. Give me a hug, old fool." 
"Give me a hug, friend. I'll keep my eye out for you!" 
They watched him leave, riding at a trot towards Beauclair. 
The sky was dark. 
"Reynart." The witcher turned in the saddle. "Ride with us." 
"No, Geralt," replied Reynart de Bois-Fresnes after a moment. "I am a knight-errant. But I am 
not crazy." 
 
*** 

 
In the great pillared hall of Castle Montecalvo they were in unusually high spirits. Here the 
usually dominant light of the candelabra had now been replaced by the milky light of a large, 
magical screen. The image on the screen wavered, flickered, and disappeared from time to 
time. All this increased the tension and excitement. And nervousness. 
"Ha," said Philippa Eilhart with a predatory smile. "What a shame that I cannot be there. A 
little action would do me good. And a little adrenaline." 
Sile de Tancarville gave her a disapproving look, but said nothing. Francesca Findabair and 
Ida Emean stabilized the image with spells and enlarged it so that it occupied the entire 
screen. They could clearly see black peaks against the backdrop of deep blue sky, filled with 
stars, which also reflected on the surface of a lake situated by a dark and edgy profile of a 
castle. 
"I am still not sure," Sile said, "whether it was proper to transfer the management of this task 
force to young Sabrina and Metz. Keira had her ribs broken on Thanedd, she will probably 
want to take revenge. And Sabrina... well, she likes the action and adrenaline a bit too much. 
Isn't that so, Philippa?" 
"We talked about this already", snapped Philippa, her voice was as sour as a plum. "We've 
laid down the rules. No one is killed if it can be avoided. Sabrina and Keira's group will enter 
Rhys-Rhun on tiptoe, quiet as a mouse, psst. They will take Vilgefortz alive, without a 
scratch, without a bruise. Those are the rules we set. Although I am still of the opinion that 
we should have made an example. So that the few in the castle who would have survived the 
night would have woken up crying, and would have dreamed of this night for the rest of their 
lives." 
"Revenge," the sorceress from Kovir said dryly, "is the joy of mediocre, weak, and petty 
minds." 
"Maybe," agreed Philippa with a seemingly indifferent smile. "But it is still a joy." 
"Enough of that," Margarita Laux-Antille lifted a glass of sparkling wine in the air. "I suggest 
we drink to the health of Miss Fringilla Vigo, through whose efforts Vilgefortz's hideout was 
discovered. Really, Miss Fringilla, good work, very good work." 
Fringilla bowed and raised her glass in reply. She noticed a hint of mockery in Philippa's 
black eyes. There was indignation in Triss Merigold's blue-eyed gaze. She could not decipher 
the smiles of Francesca or Sile. 
"It begins," said Assire var Anahid, pointing to the magical image. 
They sat down comfortably. In order to see better, Philippa dampened the candlelight with a 
spell. 
They watched as black figures flew by the mountains, as silent and agile as bats. As they 
broke formation and descended to the battlements and ramparts of Castle Rhys-Rhun. 
"It must be a hundred years ago," murmured Philippa, "since I've had a broom between my 
legs. Soon I will forget how to fly." 
Sile, eyes fixed on the screen, silenced her with an impatient hiss. 
The windows of the black castle flashed briefly with fire. Once, twice, three times. They 
knew what it was. Locked doors and locking chains being shattered under the blows of ball 
lightning. 
"They're inside," Assire var Anahid said quietly, the only one not looking at the screen, but 
instead into a crystal ball lying on the table. "The task force is inside. But something is 
wrong. Something is not as it should be." 
Fringilla's heart was pounding and her stomach felt queasy. She knew that everything was 
not the way it should be. 
"Miss Glevissig" reported Assire again, "will open a direct communicator." 

The space between the pillars of the hall suddenly flared up and an oval materialized into 
Sabrina Glevissig - dressed in men's clothes, her hair held back by a chiffon scarf around her 
forehead, her face blackened with strips of camouflage. Behind the sorceress' back, they 
could see dirty stone walls and shredded rags that had once been tapestries. 
Sabrina's hand stretched out towards them, her glove displaying the hanging remains of long 
strips of cobwebs. 
"Just these," she said, gesturing violently, "there are plenty these here! Just these! Hell, what 
a stupid ... What a disgrace ..." 
"Coherent, Sabrina!" 
"What, coherent?" Shouted the magician from Kaedwen. "How should I make it more 
coherent? Can you not see? This is the castle of Rhys-Rhun! It is empty! Dilapidated and 
empty! It is a damned empty ruin! There's nothing here! Nothing!" 
Keira Metz appeared standing behind Sabrina's back, looking like the purest hell with 
camouflage painted on her face. 
"No one," she confirmed quietly, "has been in this castle. For about fifty years. For fifty 
years, there has not been a living soul, except for spiders, rats, and bats. We have raided the 
entirely wrong place." 
'Have you verified that this is not an illusion?" 
"Do you think we are children, Philippa?" 
"Be careful, both of you." Philippa Eilhart nervously ran her fingers through her hair. "Tell 
the mercenaries and novices that this was an exercise. They should return to be paid. Return 
immediately. And it put on a good face, you hear? A very good face!" 

The communication oval went out. Only one image remained on the screen. The castle of 
Rhys-Rhun against the black, glittering stars of the heavens. And the lake where the stars 
were reflected. 
Fringilla Vigo looked at the table. She felt as though the pulsating blood in her cheeks would 
come bursting out at any moment. 
"I really...," she said, as she could no longer endure the silence that prevailed in the great 
pillared hall of Castle Montecalvo. "I really ... do not..." 
"I do," said Triss Merigold. 
"This castle ..." Philippa said thoughtfully, ignoring the others. "This castle ... Rhys-Rhun ... 
We will have to destroy it. Completely lay it to ruins. And any records of this whole affair – 
legends or traditions, will be required to submit to a careful censorship. Do you ladies know 
what I mean?" 
"Very well." Findabair Francesca, who had been silent until then, nodded. Ida Emean, who 
had also been silent, allowed a very eloquent snort. 
"I ..." Fringilla Vigo was still stunned. "I really do not understand how ... how this could 
happen..." 
"Ah," Sile de Tancarville said after a very long silence. "There is nothing further to say, Miss 
Vigo. No one is perfect." 
Philippa snorted softly. Assire var Anahid sighed and looked up at the ceiling. 
"Ultimately," Sile added with pursed lips, "it is something that each of us has already 
experienced at some point. Each of us, as we sit here, has at some time been betrayed, 
exploited, or made a mockery of by a man." 
 
*** 
 
 
 

 
'I love thee, thy beauty I covet and choose; 
Be willing, my darling, or force I shall use' 
'Dear father, oh father, he seizes my arm! 
The Alder King, father, has done me harm!' 
 
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 
 
Everything has already been done once, everything will eventually happen again. And 
everything has already been described before. 
 
Vysogota of Corvo 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Chapter Five 
 
 
A hot and stuffy afternoon fell on the forest, the lake's surface, until recently was dark as 
polished jade, now gleamed like gold. The reflection off of the surface from the sun was so 
blinding that Ciri had to shade her watery eyes with her hand. 
 She ran through the bushes that grew on the shore and forced Kelpie into the lake, the 
deep water reached above the knees of the mare. The water was so clear that, even from the 
height of her saddle, Ciri could see the shadow of the horse on the colourful mosaic floor, the 
seaweed and the shells. She saw a small crab moving very quickly among the pebbles. 
Kelpie whinnied. Ciri jerked the reins and moved into the shallows, but not all the way to 
the shore because it was sandy with many stones which would hinder fast travel. She directed 
the mare closer to the edge of the water, where she could run on reasonably firm gravel. She 
let the mare trot, but after a while the trot became slower. With a cry she kicked her heels into 
Kelpie's side and spurred into a gallop. Water sprayed up on all sides, flashing in the sun like 
molten silver. 
She did not slow down, even when she saw the tower in front of her. They literally flew 
through the shallow water. An ordinary horse would have certainly slowed down. But 
Kelpie's breathing was deep and regular, and her canter was still fast and lightweight. 
They ran into the courtyard in full momentum, making a great noise as the horseshoes 
struck the cobblestones, she slowed the mare sharply so that for a moment the shoes slipped 
on the cobbles. She stopped right in front of the elves that waited at the foot of the tower. 
Before their very noses. She felt satisfaction when two of the usually steady and 
dispassionate elves, recoiled involuntarily. 
'Don't be alarmed,' she snorted. 'I won't hit you! Unless I wanted to.' 
 The elves quickly recovered, smoothing their faces to calm again, their indifferent eyes 
started back at her with nonchalance. Ciri jumped, or rather flew from the saddle. In her eyes 
was a challenge. 
'Bravo,' said the blond elf with a triangular face, emerging from the shadows of an 
arcade. 'A nice performance, Loc'hlaith.' 
He had greeted her the same as when she entered the Tower of the Swallow and found 
herself in the middle of blooming spring,. But that was a long time ago and it no longer 
produced any impression on Ciri. 
'I am not the Lady of the Lake,' she protested. 'I am a prisoner here! And you are my 
jailors! Why not admit it?' 
'Please!' she threw the reins to one of the elves. 'The horse needs to be rubbed down. 
And given a cool water to drink. And take good care of her!' 
The blond elf smiled. 
'Indeed,' he said, looking at the elf leading Kelpie to the stable. 'You're an imprisoned 
here and mistreated by cruel jailors. It is visible at a glance.' 
'They get what they deserve!' she put her hands on her hips and glared into his clear 
aquamarine eyes. 'I treat them like they treat me. A prison is a prison.' 
'You astonish me, Loc'hlaith.' 
'And you treat me like a stupid kid. And you have not even introduced yourself.' 
'Sorry. My name is Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha. And I am an Aen Saevherne, if 
you know what that means.' 
'Yes I do,' she had no time to hide her admiration. 'A Knowing one. Elven wizards.' 

'You could call it that. For convenience, I use an alias, Avallac'h, so you can call me 
that.' 
'And who told you,' Ciri frowned, 'that I have any intention of talking to you? A 
Knowing one or not, you are my jailor, and I am...' 
'A prisoner,' he finished sarcastically. 'You already said that. Also that you are a prisoner 
that is ill-treated. The riding trips are undoubtedly forced, you wear a sword on your back 
under pressure and as punishment you have to wear those garments, which are so much more 
tasteful, newer and cleaner than the one in which you were discovered. However, despite the 
harsh conditions, you do not give up. The wrong that we have committed again you, you 
repay with rebellion. You also broke with great courage some mirrors that were true works of 
art.' 
She flushed with anger and shame. 
'Oh,' he added hastily. 'You can break what you want. They are only things – even if 
they were made by artist several hundred years ago. Will you walk with me to the lake?' 
The wind had risen and it somewhat eased her embarrassment. Additionally the tall trees 
around the tower provided shade. 
The water in the lake was a murky green colour, the abundant water lilies that adorned 
it's surface, with their yellow flowers, made it seem like a meadow. The sandpipers, 
squawking and shaking their red beaks, move quickly away at their approach. 
'That mirror...' Ciri stammered, her heels digging into the wet gravel. 'I'm sorry about 
that. I was in a rage. That was all.' 
'Oh.' 
'They were ignoring me. The elves. When I speak to them, they pretend they don't 
understand. And they speak to me on purpose so that I do not understand them. Just to 
humiliate me.' 
'You speak our language perfectly. However,' he explained calmly, 'it's still a foreign 
language to you. Besides, you are using hen llinge, and they use ellylon. The difference are 
not great, but they are there.' 
'You understand. Every word.' 
'I'm speaking to you using hen lling. It is the language the elves speak on your world.' 
'And you?' she turned away. 'From what world are you? I'm not an ignorant child. At 
night I look up at the sky. There is not a single constellation that I know. This world is not my 
own. It's not my place. I came here by accident... I want to get out. To leave.' 
She bent down and picked up a stone, and made a motion as if to throw it at the 
sandpipers on the edge of the lake. She stopped when she noticed his stare. 
'When I go riding,' she said indignantly, 'I always end up back at the lake and the tower. 
Whether I head out on either side, whether I change direction, no matter what I do, every time 
I end up at the lake and the tower. Every time. I cannot get away from this place. So it is a 
prison. It's worse than a dungeon with bars on the windows. Do you know why? Because it is 
humiliating. Ellylon or not, it angers me when they make fun of me and show their distain. 
Don't pretend that you're not laughing at me and despising me. Are you surprised when I get 
angry?' 
'I'm surprised, in fact,' his eyes widened. 'Extremely.' 
She sighed and shrugged. 
'I went into the tower over a week ago,' she said, making an effort to stay calm. 'And 
when I came out I was in a different world. You were waiting for me, sitting and playing a 
flute. You said that you were surprised that I had taken so long in coming. You addressed me 
by my name, but later you gave me that nonsense about the Lady of the Lake. After that you 
disappeared without an explanation. Leaving me in this prison. Call this what you please. I 
call it contempt and malicious wounding.' 

'It has only been eight days, Zireael.' 
'Ah,' she frowned, ' So, I've been lucky? Because it could be eight weeks? Or eight 
months? Or eight... 
She paused. 
'Much you have strayed away,' he said quietly, 'from Lara Dorren. You have lost your 
inheritance, the bond with her blood. It is not surprising that people do not understand you, or 
you them. You don't just talk differently, but think differently too – in completely different 
ways. What is eight days or eight weeks? Time is not important.' 
'I confess,' she shouted back angrily. 'I'm not a wise elf, I'm just a silly mortal. For me, 
time is important, so I count the days and even hours. And I figure it has been a lot of some 
and more of others. I do not want anything from you, I do not want you to explain why it is 
spring in these woods or why unicorns live here and I do not care why the constellations in 
the sky are not known to me. I do not care how you knew my name or how I came here. I just 
want one thing – to go home! To my world! To my people! To those who think just like me! 
In the same way!' 
'You can go back to them. After a period of time.' 
'I want it now!' she cried. 'Not after a period of time, dammit! Since time here takes 
forever! Why can I not leave now? I came here alone, by choice! So what right do you have 
holding me here?' 
'You did come alone,' he said seriously. 'But not by choice. Fate has brought you here 
and we helped a little. Long have we been awaiting you. Even by the standards of our time.' 
'I do not understand any of this.' 
'We have been waiting a long time, 'he said not paying any attention to her objection, 
'fearful of one thing – that you would not be able to get here. But you did it. You have 
confirmed your origin, your blood. And that means that here, and not among the Dh'oine is 
your place. You are the rightful daughter of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. 
'I am the daughter of Pavetta! I do not even know who this Lara of your is!' 
He paused. Almost imperceptibly. 
'In that case,' he reconsidered, 'It would be best if I explain who Lara is. But time is 
short, so I would prefer to use the most popular explanations along the way. But from you 
recklessness and defiance you have harassed your mare...' 
'Harassed my mare? Ha! You do not know what my mare can handle. Where are we 
going?' 
'Id you'll excuse me, I'll also tell you that along the way.' 
 
*** 
 
Ciri slowed Kelpie from her mad gallop. 
Avallac'h had not lied. There, in the open, in the grasslands and heaths from which 
protruded menhirs, worked the same force that surround Tor Zireael. No matter which 
direction she rode or how fast, and invisible magic force pulled her back in a circle. 
Kelpie snorted and Ciri patted her neck, looking calm at the bunch of elves. A moment 
ago, when Avallac'h finally told her what they wanted from her, she took off at a full gallop, 
to get away from them, leaving them as far behind as possible. To escape them and their 
arrogant and unusual request. 
But there they were back in front of her. She had rode a mile, more or less. But Avallac'h 
had not lied. There was no escape. 
The only good thing about the gallop was that it had cooled her head and soothed her 
nerves. She was calmer. But she was still shaking with anger. 
I've fall in deep, she thought. By the gods, why did I enter that tower? 

She shivered as she remembered Bonhart speeding up behind her on a lathered horse on 
the cracking ice. She controlled herself. I'm alive, she thought. So it's not the end of the fight. 
The fight only end with death, everything else is just an interruption. So they taught me at 
Kaer Morhen. 
She walked Kelpie slowly, but when she saw the mare proudly raise her head she 
encouraged her to a trot. She rode around the menhirs. The grass and heather reached to her 
stirrups. 
Soon she caught up to Avallac'h and the three elves. The Knowing one was smiling 
mysteriously and watched her with his aquamarine eyes. 
'Please Avallac'h,' she said hoarsely. 'Say it was a joke.' 
'A shadow crossed his face. 
'I'm not in the habit of making jokes like this,' he said seriously. 'I will seriously reiterate 
that we want you to bear a son, Swallow, daughter of Lara Dorren. Once you give birth to the 
child, we'll let you leave here and go back to your own world. Of course, the choice is yours. 
I imagine your wild ride will have helped you to make the decision. What is your answer?' 
'My answer is no,' Ciri replied flatly. 'Categorically, permanently, no. I'm not ready and 
that is that.' 
'I confess,' he shrugged, 'you disappointed me. But it's your decision.' 
'How can you even ask such a thing?' she said, her voice trembling. ' How can you? By 
what right?' 
He looked at her blankly. Ciri also noticed that the other elves were watching. 
'It seemed to me,' he said, 'that I already clarified the secret of your origin. It seemed to 
me that you understood me. Therefore your question surprises me. We have the right and we 
can demand, Swallow. Your father, Cregennan, took our child. You have to give one to us. 
To pay off the debt. It seems to me to be only logical and fair.' 
'My father... I do not remember my father, but he was called Duny. Not Cregennan. I 
told you that already!' 
'And I told you that a few ludicrously short human generations mean nothing to us.' 
'But I won't do it!' shouted Ciri, startling the horses. 'Do you not understand? I won't! I 
hate the idea that you would try to implant a fucking parasite in me, it makes me sick to think 
that this parasite would grow in me, that...' 
She stopped suddenly, seeing the faces of the elves. In two of them was reflected infinite 
amazement. In the third, an infinite hatred. Avallac'h intentionally coughed. 
'Let's go,' he said coldly, 'a little ahead and talk face to face. Your views, Swallow, are a 
bit too radical to proclaim in public.' 
She obeyed. They rode ahead for a time without speaking. 
'I'll escape,' Ciri broke the silence. 'You will not be able to hold me against my will. I 
escaped from the island of Thanedd, I ran away from my captors and the Nilfgaardians, I 
escaped Bonhart and the Owl. I will also escape your hands. I will find a way with sorcery.' 
'I thought,' he said, that you rely more on your friends. On Yennefer. On Geralt.' 
'You know about the?' she said. 'Well, yes. You are a Knowing one! Therefore you know 
about them because I was thinking about them. In my world, they are both in danger right 
now, in this moment. And you want to keep me here... For, at least nine months. You see, I 
have no choice. I understand that it is important for you to have a child of the Elder blood, 
but I can't. I just can't.' 
The elf rode so close that their knees touched. 
'As I said, the decision is yours. We respect that, but we must take certain steps. You 
yourself will find that there is no escape, Swallow. If you refuse to cooperate, then you will 
stay here forever and you will never see your world or friends again.' 
'This is blackmail!' 

'Conversely,' he ignored her protest. 'If you will obey our request, we can tell you that 
time for us really does mean nothing.' 
'I do not understand.' 
'Here time passes differently than there. If you help us, we will reward you. Giving you 
back the time you will lose with among us. Among the People of the Alders.' 
She was silent, staring at Kelpie's black mane. I have to think of a delaying tactic, she 
thought frantically. What did Vesemir use to say – When you are to hang, ask for a cup of 
water. You never know what is going to happen before they bring it. 
One of the elves whistled shrilly. 
Avallac'h horse whinnied and nervously stamped the ground. The elf mastered it, and 
shouted something back in elvish. Ciri saw one of the riders pull a bow from his saddle. She 
stood up in the stirrups and shadowed her eyes with her hands. 
'Stay calm.' Avallac'h said sharply. Ciri sighed. 
About two hundred feet away rushing through the heath was a herd of unicorns. At least 
thirty of them. She had seen them before, sometimes at dawn come down to the lake under 
the Tower od the Swallow to drink. But they never let her approach them – they always 
disappeared like ghosts. 
The leader of the herd was a strong stallion, a rust-red colour. He stopped and whinnied 
loudly, rearing. He stood on his hind legs with his front legs pawing at the air in a way no 
horse would be able to do. 
Ciri noticed with astonishment that Avallac'h and his elves had started to softly chant 
some strange, monotonous melody. 
Who are you? 
She shook her head. 
Who are you? The question resonated inside her head, pounding at her temples. Suddenly 
the song of the elves escalated. The unicorn whinnied and the whole herd replied. The earth 
shook as the animals ran off. 
The elves' song stopped. Ciri saw Avallac'h wiping sweat from his forehead. The elf 
looked at her out of the corner of his eye, to see if he saw it. 
'Not everything here is as nice as it seems on first sight.' He said dryly. 'Not everything.' 
'Are you afraid of unicorns? They're wise and friendly.' 
He did not answer. 
'I've heard,' she did not give up. 'that elves and unicorns love one another.' 
He turned his head. 
'Consider then,' he said coolly, 'what you saw then was an argument between lovers.' 
She asked no more questions. 
She had enough of her own concerns. 
 
*** 
 
The tops of the hills were crowned with menhirs and dolmens. The sight of them 
reminded Ciri of the stone in Ellander, where Yennefer had taught her magic. Oh, that was a 
long time ago, she thought. Centuries ago... 
One of the elves screamed. Ciri looked in the direction that the woman was pointing. 
Before she could properly realise that the herd had returned, led by the red stallion, another 
elf cried out. Ciri sat up in her saddle. 
From behind the hill, on the opposite side, emerged a second herd. The unicorn guiding 
them was a bluish grey colour. 
Avallac'h shouted a few words. They were in the Elvish dialect, ellyon, that she found 
incomprehensible, but the command seem to be for them to grab their bows. Avallac'h turned 

towards Ciri, and she felt her mind begin to hum. It was a sound quite similar to that of when 
you put your ear to a sea conch. But much stronger. 
Do not resist - she heard a voice – Do not defend yourself. I have to make a leap. I have 
to transfer us elsewhere. There is mortal danger here. 
Suddenly they heard a whistle and a shout. The rumble of shod hooves. From over the top 
of the hill galloped riders. A whole detachment. 
The hill was covered with horses, and the riders wore helmets with crests. From their 
shoulders billowed cloaks, whose vibrant red, cinnamon and amaranth colours were 
reminiscent of the refection of fire in the evening sky. 
With whistles and shouts, the riders headed towards them. 
Before they had made it half way, the unicorns had disappeared. 
 
*** 
 
The leader of the horsemen was a black-haired elf sitting on a dark brown stallion, who 
looked like a dragon – he was huge and had trappings embroidered with golden scales and 
wearing a horned bukranion. All the other elves had black hair and red jackets under their 
armour which was made of incredibly small steel rings that clung to the body like wool 
knitwear. 
'Avallac'h,' he saluted. 
 'Eredin.' 
'You owe me for the help. To be paid off when requested.' 
'I will pay when you ask.' 
The black-haired elf jumped to the ground. Avallac'h also dismounted and motioned for 
Ciri and the others to do the same. They climbed the hill between the upright stones 
surrounded by bushes and blooming myrtle. Ciri eyed her companions. Both were of the 
same stature – very tall. But Avallac'h face was modest, while the rider's commanders face 
resembled a bird of prey. Blond and black, she thought. Good and evil. Light and Dark. 
'Zireael, let me introduce to you this man – Eredin Breacc Glas.' 
'Nice to meet you.' The elf bowed. Ciri replied with a clumsy bow. 
'How did you know,' asked Avallac'h, 'that something threatened us?' 
'I didn't know,' the elf looked at Ciri intently. 'I patrol the plains, because news has 
spread that the unicorns have grown restless and aggressive. No one knows why. Now I know 
the reason. It's because of her.' 
Avallac'h did not confirm or deny. Ciri's haughty eyes meet the black-haired elf's. For a 
moment, they both looked at each other, and no one wanted to be the first to look away. 
'She has to be of the Elder Blood? The elf shook his head. 'Aen Hen Ichaer. Lara Dorren 
aep Shiadhal's legacy? This is hard to believe. She looks like an ordinary small Dh'oine, 
human female.' 
Avallac'h remained silent. His face was impassive and indifferent. 
'I assume,' Eredin continued, 'that you have made a mistake. Bah, rumour has it that you 
never make mistakes. In this creation, deeply hidden, lies Lara's gene. When you look closely 
you can see some of the characteristics. Indeed, in her eyes I find something that awakens in 
me the memory of Lara Dorren. Am I right, Avallac'h? Who else, if not you, should know?' 
Again Avallac'h remained silent. But Ciri noticed a shadow of a blush on his pale face. 
She was very surprised and that gave her pause. 
'Generally speaking,' sneered the dark-haired elf, 'I can see something in the little 
Dh'oine. I can see it and appreciate it. Like I've found a nugget of gold on a pile of manure.' 
Ciri's eyes flashed angrily. Avallac'h slowly raised his head. 
'You talk,' he said slowly, 'just like a human, Eredin.' 

Eredin Breacc Glas smiled showing his teeth. Ciri had seen such teeth – very white, very 
small, inhuman, all identical and with no canines. She had seen teeth like that in the elves 
lying dead, lined up in the courtyard of the guardhouse in Kaedwen. She had also seen such 
teeth in Sparks. But when Sparks smiled it looked nice, when Eredin did it, it looked ghastly. 
'I wonder if this girl, who is trying to pierce my eyes, knows the reason why she is here?' 
he aked. 
'Yes.' 
'And is she ready to cooperate?' 
'Not quite.' 
'Not quite,' he repeated. 'This is bad. The nature of the task requires cooperation for it to 
completely work. Unconditional. Otherwise it will not work. And because Tir Na Lia is 
barely half a day's journey away, it is worth it to know where we stand.' 
'You're too impatient,' Avallac'h curled his lips. 'What can we gain in such a hurry?' 
'Eternity,' Eredin said soberly, but his strange green eyes flashed. 'But this is your 
speciality, Avallac'h. Your speciality and your responsibility.' 
'So you've said.' 
'Yes, so I've said. And now if you'll excuse me, duty calls. I'll leave some of my men to 
escort you to safety. I'd advise spending the night here on this hill, if you leave at dawn, you 
will be in Tir Na Lia at the right time. Va Faill. Oh, one more thing...' he leaned down and 
plucked a blossoming twig of myrtle. He sniffed it and the handed it to Ciri with a bow. 
'Reconciliation,' he said shortly. 'An apology for careless words. Va Faill, luned.' 
He quickly left and soon the ground shook as the majority of his band left. 
'Don't tell me,' Ciri snarled,' that I would have to have... to have, with him... If it is, 
then never ever...' 
'No,' Avallac'h said unhurried. 'It will not be him. Calm down.' 
Ciri moved the myrtle closer to her face, so that Avallac'h would not noticed the 
excitement and fascination that enveloped her.' 
'I am calm.' 
 
*** 
 
The dry heather was replaced with lush grass, green ferns and yellow buttercups. Soon 
they saw a lazily flowing river lined with poplars. The water in the river, although clean, had 
a brownish colour. It smelled of peat. 
Avallac'h played on his flute a variety of lively tunes. Ciri rode frowning and thinking 
hard. 
'Who,' she asked, 'is to be the father of the child, for whom you care so much? Or maybe 
it does not matter?' 
'It is important. Am I to understand that you have made a decision?' 
'No, you do not understand. Just explain some things.' 
'I'm at your service. What do you want to know?' 
'You know what.' 
For a time they rode in silence. Ciri saw some swans floating down the river. 
'The father.' Avallac'h said calmly and factually, 'will be Auberon Muircetach. Auberon 
Muircetach is our... How do you say... Supreme leader?' 
'King? King of the Aen Seidhe?' 
'The Aen Seidhe, the People of the Hills, are the elves of your world. We are the Aen 
Elle, the People of the Alders. And Auberon Muircetach is, of course, our king.' 
'King of the Alders?' 
'You can call him that.' 

They rode in silence. It was very warm. 
'Avallac'h.' 
'Go ahead.' 
'If I decide, then... later... I'll be free?' 
'You will be free and you can go where you want. If you decide to stay. With the child.' 
'She snorted dismissively, but said nothing. 
'So you have decided?' he asked. 
'I'll decide when we get there.' 
'We are on the spot.' 
Through the branches of the weeping willows that hung down over the river, flowing like 
green curtains, Ciri saw a palace. She had never seen anything like it. As if it were not made 
of marble and alabaster, but of white lace – so delicate and light that it seemed ethereal, as if 
they were not buildings, but the ghosts of buildings. Ciri expected that at any moment the 
wind would blow and the palaces would disappear along with the rising river mist. But when 
the wind blew, the mist disappeared and moved the willow branches and wrinkled the river, 
but the palaces remained. Just more beautiful. 
Ciri looked raptly at the wispy hanging terraces and balconies, the bridges over the river 
which were hung with festoons of ivy, the stairs, balustrades, the arcades and cloisters, the 
columns, the domes, and the slender asparagus-like towers. 
'Tir Na Lia,' Avallac'h said quietly. 
The closer they move, the more fascinating the charm of the place became. Ciri's heart 
pounded and her throat was tight as she a passed fountains, mosaics and sculptures. Even the 
openwork structures whose use she did not understand. And so she was sure that they did not 
serve anything, they were just an addition to the aesthetics and harmony. 
'Tir Na Lia,' Avallac'h repeated. 'Have you ever seen anything like it?' 
'Yes,' she said through her tight throat. 'I saw the remains of such a thing. In 
Shaerrawedd.' 
This time the elf was silent for a long while. 
 
*** 
 
They crossed the river by a bridge, the arch looked so frail that Kelpie rebelled and 
snorted when she tried to cross. 
Ciri was tense and restless, but carefully looked around, not wanting to miss anything, 
none of the views, that the city of Tir Na Lia had to offer. Firstly, from a burning curiosity. 
Secondly, she had not stopped thinking about the possibility of escape and diligently kept 
watch for such an occasion. 
On bridges and terraces, in malls and colonnades, balconies and porches, she saw elves 
moving, with long hair, wearing tight jerkins and short layers, with fancy embroidery. Or in 
sheer flowing dresses or in tight clothes that emphasised the curves of their bodies. 
Before the porch of one of the palaces, they were met by Eredin Breacc Glas. On his 
instruction small grey-clad elves ran quickly and quietly to handle their horses. Ciri watched 
him in some surprise. Avallac'h, Eredin and all the elves that she had met so far were 
extremely tall, so that to look them in the eye she had to bend back her head. These grey 
elves were smaller than her. Some other race, she thought, a race of servants. Even in this 
fairy-tale word, someone has to work for the lazy. 
They entered the palace. Ciri sighed. She was a princess of royal blood and had been 
raised in a palace. But such marble, stucco, mosaics, stained glass, mirrors and chandeliers 
she had never seen. She felt in all that dazzling splendour, wrong, awkward, out of place., 
dusty, sweaty and tired from the trip. 

Avallac'h by contrast, did not care at all. He dusted his pants with his gloves, ignoring the 
fact that dust was settling on the mirrors. Then with a stately gesture he gave the gloves to a 
young elf who bowed before him. 
'Auberon,' he said briefly, 'is expecting us?' 
Eredin smiled. 
'Yes, you are expected. He is anxious. He has demanded that the Swallow come to him 
immediately, without a moment's delay. I have dissuaded him.' 
Avallac'h frowned. 
'Zireael,' Eredin explained, 'should appear before the king, unhurried, without pressure, 
relaxed, calm and in good spirits. To ensure a good mood, a bath, new clothes, a new 
hairstyle and makeup. Auberon can probably endure that long.' 
Ciri sighed deeply and looked carefully at the dark-haired elf. She was surprised at his 
sudden sympathy. Eredin flashed her a smile with his straight white teeth without canines. 
'The only thing that concerns me,' he said, 'our Swallow's eyes – twinkling like a hawk, 
have not stopped glancing left and right, like a ferret looking for a hole in her cage. From 
what I can see, Swallow is far from an unconditional surrender.' 
Avallac'h did not say anything. Ciri, of course, said nothing as well. 
'I'm not surprised,' Eredin continued. 'She could not be otherwise, since she is the blood 
of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. Listen to me very carefully, Zireael. There is no escape. You 
cannot break a Geas Garadh, a barrier of Magic.' 
The look Ciri throw his way clearly said that would have to be proven to be believed. 
'Even if by some miracle, you collapse the barrier,' Eredin was not distracted by her look, 
'you know that it would mean your doom. This world seems very beautiful. But it can also 
bring death, especially to strangers. A wound from the horn of a unicorn has no cure, not 
even magic. Know too, that you will get no help from your innate talents. Do not make any 
attempt to try and jump. If you did, know that my Dearg Ruadhri – my Red Horsemen, are 
able to cross the chasms of time and space.' 
She did not really understand what he was saying. But it puzzled her that Avallac'h 
suddenly scowled and frowned, clearly unhappy with Eredin's speech. As if Eredin had said 
too much. 
'Let's go,' he said. 'With your permission, Zireael. I am going to leave you in the hands 
of the women. You'll have to prepare quickly. First impressions are everything.' 
 
*** 
 
Her heart pounded in her chest, her temples throbbed with blood and her hands trembled. 
She mastered it by clenching her hands into fists. And calmed herself by breathing deeply. 
She relaxed her shoulders and tried to move her stiff neck. 
Once more she glanced into the big mirror. The sight was quite satisfactory. Her eyes and 
lips had been painted, after her bath her damp hair had been trimmed and combed, so that it at 
least partially obscured the scar on her face. She wore a silver shirt, open to mid-thigh, a red 
vest and a silk blouse. The neck scarf she had been given touched it off nicely. 
She adjusted the scarf and then reached under her skirt to check with amazement the 
underwear she wore. Briefs as thin as gossamer and stockings, which inexplicably stayed on 
her thighs without suspenders. 
She reached for the door handle. She hesitated, as if it was not a door handle, but a 
sleeping cobra. 
The plague, she automatically thought in Elvish, I've dealt with armed men. I can deal 
with... 
She closed her eyes and sighed. And entered the room. 

No one was inside. On the table lay a book and an old malachite carafe. On the walls 
were strange bas reliefs, draped curtains and floral tapestries. In one corner stood a statue. 
And in the other corner, a bed with a canopy. Her heart started pounding again. She 
swallowed. 
From the corner of her eye she saw movement. Not in the chamber. Out on the terrace. 
He sat there, his back to her in a half profile. 
Although she had learned that among the elves nobody looked like how she used to 
believe, Ciri was shocked. Every time they had spoken of a king, she had imagined someone 
like Ervyll of Verden, who she had been very close to becoming his daughter on one 
occasion. When thinking of the king she remembered him smelling of onions and beer, a 
smelly fat man with swollen eyes and a red nose stick out from over his beard and wielding a 
sceptre in his hand covered in brown spots and bitten nails. 
On the terrace sat quite a different king. 
He was very thin and apparently very tall. He wore a black Jacket and traditional high 
elven boots with buckles across the length of the leg. His long, grey hair, fell down over 
sloping shoulders and down his back. His hands were white and narrow, with long fingers. 
He was busy blowing bubble. He held a bowl with soap and water and a straw, into which 
he blew again and again, as iridescent rainbow bubbles floated down to the river. 
Ciri coughed softly. 
The King of the Alders turned. Ciri could not help but sigh. His eyes were extraordinary. 
Clear as molten lead and huge. And full of indescribable sadness. 
'Zireael,' he said. 'Thank you for agreeing to see me.' 
Ciri stood silently not knowing what to say. Auberon Muircetach blew into the straw 
again, and launched another bubble into the air. 
To control her trembling hands, she clasped them together and cracked her fingers, then 
nervously smoothed her hair. The elf didn't notice as all his attention was focused on the 
bubbles. 
'Are you nervous?' 
'No,' she blatantly lied. 'I'm not.' 
'Are you in a hurry?' 
'Of course.' 
She probably put too much defiance in her voice, she felt that she was teetering on the 
edge of civility. The elf gave no sign that he noticed, instead he inflated a huge bubble at the 
end of his straw. He admired his work for a long time. 
'Would I be unduly curious, if I asked where you are in such a hurry to go?' 
'Home,' she said, but then added in a gentler tone. 'To my world.' 
'To where?' 
'To my world!' 
'Ah. Sorry. I could have sworn you said – "My mule." It made me flustered. You speak 
our language perfectly, but you should pay more attention to intonation and pronunciation.' 
'Is it important to intonate? It would not if you had not brought me here to talk.' 
'Nothing hurts when aspiring to perfection.' 
From the end of the straw emerged a new bubble which detached and began to float 
through the air, before exploding on impact with a willow branch. Ciri sighed again 
'So you are in a hurry to return to your world,' said King Auberon Muiretach. 'Your 
world! You people really do not suffer from excessive modesty. Your hairy ancestors 
appeared with sword in hand latter than the chickens. And yet I have never heard a hen claim 
that it was "their world". Hwy are you fidgeting like a monkey? What I'm saying should 
interest you. After all, it is your history. Oh, let me guess – you do not care about this story 
and you're bored.' 

The breeze carried another bubble away down the river. Ciri remained silent, biting her 
lip. 
'Your hairy ancestors,' the elf continued, shaking the straw in the bowl, 'quickly learned 
to use their opposable thumb and rudimentary intelligence. With their help they did different 
things, usually as ridiculous as terrible. What I mean to say is that, if anything that your 
ancestors created was not terrible, then it was ridiculous.' 
Another bubble followed the first then another. 
'We, Aen Elle, we cared very little about the deeds of your ancestors, we unlike the Aen 
Seidhe, our cousins, we left that world a long time ago. We chose another universe, more 
interesting. In that time, it will surprise you, it was possible to move freely from one world to 
another quite easily. With some talent and practice, that is. I have no doubt that you 
understand what I mean.' 
Ciri was intrigues, but remained silent, aware that the elf was teasing. She did not want to 
facilitate the task. 
Auberon Muircetach smiled. He turned around. On his neck was a golden torc – a symbol 
of the ruler, known in the elder speech as a torc'h. 
'Mire, luned.' 
Again he blew lightly into the straw while gently swaying. A fan of smaller bubbles 
soared into the air. 
'The worlds were like these bubbles,' he hummed. 'So, it was, so it was... We told 
ourselves, what's the difference, we will stay here a little while, then there a little while, so 
what if the stupid Dh'oine insist on destroying themselves and the world? We'll go 
somewhere else, to another bubble...' 
Under his burning gaze, Ciri nodded and licked her lips. The elf smiled again, and blew 
his bubbles again, this time so that the straw formed a large cluster of smaller bubbles and 
joined to each other. 
'Then came the Conjunction,' the elf raised his straw laden with bubbles. 'The number of 
worlds increased. But the door closed. It was closed to all but a handful of elected people. 
And the clock was ticking. We needed to open the door. Urgently. It was imperative. Do you 
understand that word?' 
'I'm not stupid.' 
'No, you're not,' he turned his head again. 'You cannot be. You are Aen Hen Ichaer, the 
Elder Blood. Come.' 
He extended his hand and Ciri inadvertently clenched her teeth. But Auberon only 
touched her forearm and then her hands. She felt a pleasant tingling. She dared to look into 
his incredible eyes. 
'When I was told, I did not believe it,' he whispered. 'But it is true. Your eyes are 
Shiadhal. Lara's eyes.' 
Ciri looked down. She felt stupid and insecure. The King of the Alders rested his elbows 
on the railing and his chin in his hands. 
For a long time it seemed like her was only interesting in the swans swimming in the 
river. 
'Thanks for coming,' he said finally, without turning his head. 'Now go away and leave 
me alone.' 
 
*** 
 
She found Avallac'h on a terrace by the river, just about to board a boat in the company 
of a beautiful elf with hair the colour of straw. The elf's lips were painted a pistachio colour 
and her eyelids and temples were painted with gold. 

Ciri was about to turn around and leave when a gesture from Avallac'h restrained her. 
With another gesture he invited her onto the boat. She hesitated. She did not want to talk in 
front of witnesses. Avallac'h said a few quiet words to the elf and kissed her hand. The elf 
shrugged and walked away. Only once did she glance at Ciri and her eyes show exactly what 
she thought of her. 
'If you can, refrain from comment,' said Avallac'h as she sat on a bench in the bow. He 
sat down across from her, pulled out his flute and began to play, ignoring the boat 
completely.. Ciri watched anxiously., but the boat slid perfectly into the middle of the river, 
without deviating an inch. The boat was very strange, Ciri had never seen anything like it, 
even in Skellige where one could see everything that could move through water. It had a high 
bow carved into the shape of a key, was very narrow and very shaky. Indeed, only an elf 
could sit in something like this and play carefree on a flute, instead of rowing and steering. 
Avallac'h stopped playing. 
'What is it that troubles you?' 
He listened to Ciri's story with a vague smile. 
'You're disappointed,' he did not ask. 'Disappointed and disillusioned and above all 
outraged.' 
'Not at all! I'm not!' 
'You should not be,' the elf became serious. 'Auberon treated you with reverence, as a 
native Aen Elle. Do not forget, we, the People of the Alders, do not ever hurry. We have 
time.' 
'He told me something else.' 
'I know what he said.' 
'What he wanted, well, you know?' 
'Certainly.' 
She had learned a lot. She did not sigh nor gave a hint of impatience or irritability when 
he put the flute to his lips and started playing again. Melodic and wistful. 
The boat sailed and bridges passed overhead. 
'We have very serious reasons for believing,' he said after the fourth bridge had passed, 
'that your world is in danger of disappearing. In a natural disaster no a massive scale. You do 
have some elementary education, so you must have heard of the Aen Ithlinnespeath – the 
Ithlinne's Prophecy. She speaks of the time of the White winter. In our opinion, it will be a 
powerful ice age. It will be so extensive that it threatens the existence of most living 
creatures. They will simply die from the cold. Those who survive will fall into barbarism, 
killing each other in ruthless battles for food, they will become prey to predators mad with 
hunger. Remember the text from the prophecy – The time of contempt, the Axe and the 
Wolf's Blizzard.' 
Ciri did not interrupt him, afraid that he would start playing the flute again. 
'The child, on which so much depends,' said Avallac'h as he played with his flute, 'will 
be a descendant of Lara Dorren and a carrier of the gene, a gene that was specially built by 
us, it may save the inhabitants of your world. We have reason to think that the descenadant pf 
Lara and your child, of course, will have abilities a thousand times more powerful than those 
we have, the Knowing ones. The same as you yourself possess. Do you know what I mean?' 
Ciri had learned that in the Elder Speech such rhetorical figures, although seemingly 
questions, do not require an answer, but simply prohibit a response. 
'In short,' continued Avallac'h, 'we will have the opportunity to travel between the 
worlds, and not for only a single person. We want to open Ard Gaeth – The Great Gate, 
which all will pass through. We could do this before the Conjunction, and we will achieve it 
now. We will evacuate the dying world and the Aen Seidhe who live there, our brothers, 

whom we are obliged to help. We do not neglect such a responsibility. We will take all of the 
world's endangered, Zireael. Everyone, even the humans.' 
'Really?' Ciri couldn't contain herself. 'Even the Dh'oine?' 
'Yes. Trust me. Do you now see how important you are, how we care about you? It is 
imperative that you be patient. It is important that you return to Auberon and spend the night 
with him. Believe me, his behaviour has not been a sign of reluctance. He knows, that for you 
this is not easy and does not wish to be inappropriately hasty. He knows many things, 
Swallow. You may have no doubt noticed.' 
'Yes, I've noticed,' she snorted. 'I've also noticed that the current has bore us quite far 
from Tir Na Lia. Time to take the oars. Which, moreover, I do not see here.' 
'Because they are not here,' Avallac'h raised his arm, turned his hand and snapped his 
fingers. The boat stopped. It stood in place, then began to move against the current. 
The elf sat comfortably, put his flute to his lips and completely devoted himself to music. 
 
*** 
 
That night, the King of the Alders invited her to dinner. When she entered, accompanied 
by the rustle of silk, he motioned her to sit down at the table. There were no servants. He 
served himself. 
Dinner consisted of more than a dozen varieties of vegetables, there were also 
mushrooms, fried, stewed and dipped in sauce. Ciri had never tried that kind of mushroom. 
Some were white and thin like leaves with a delicate and delicious flavour, others were 
brown and black, aromatic and fleshy. 
The meal was washed down with rose wine, which was light and relaxed the tongue. 
Before she knew it, she had told him things that she never thought she'd tell anyone. He 
listened patiently. And then she suddenly remembered what it was she had come here to do. 
She frowned and stopped. 
'As I understand it,' Auberon said, offering her another kind of mushroom, greenish and 
smelling like apple pie, 'you are convinced that destiny binds you to this man, Geralt?' 
'That's right,' she said, picking up a glass with lipstick marks around the edges. 'Destiny. 
He, that is, Geralt, is predestined for me, and I him. Our fates are intertwined. Therefore it 
would be better if I left immediately. Do you understand?' 
'I admit, not much.' 
'Destiny,' she drank a little wine. 'The power that is not advisable to resist. So I think... 
No, no, thank you, I do not want more, I am stuffed to bursting.' 
'What do you mean?' 
'I think it is wrong for you to keep me here. And if you force me... Well, you know what 
I mean. I have to leave here, and hurry to their aid... Because my destiny...' 
'Fate,' he interrupted, raising his cup. 'Predestination. Something that is inevitable. The 
mechanism that causes a virtually infinite number of unforeseeable events to necessarily lead 
to one result and not another. Is that it?' 
'Exactly!' 
'So where and why do you want to go? Drink wine, enjoy the moment, enjoy life. What is 
to come, will come, if it is inevitable.' 
'It's not that simple.' 
'Thus contradicting yourself.' 
'That's not true.' 
'You deny the denial, that's a vicious circle.' 
'No,' she said shaking her head. 'You can't sit there and do nothing. Nothing comes by 
itself!' 

'That's a sophism.' 
'You cannot mindlessly waste time! You'll miss the right moment... There is often only 
one, unrepeatable. Time cannot go backwards.' 
'Excuse me,' he said, getting up from the table. 'Look at this.' 
He pointed to a wall, which was decorated with an embossed relief depicting a giant scaly 
snake. The reptile was rolled into the shape of a figure eight with its teeth biting its own tail. 
Ciri had seen a similar representation, but could not remember where it was. 
'Here you see the snake Uroboros,' said the elf. It is the symbol of infinity, eternal 
departure and eternal returns. It has neither beginnings nor ends. Time is like Uroboros. Time 
is the passing moments, like grains of sand in an hourglass. We try to measure acts and 
events, but Uroboros reminds us that every moment, in every deed and every event lurks in 
the past , the present and the future – in short, eternity. Every departure is also returning, 
every welcome is also a goodbye. Everything is simultaneously the beginning and the end. 
And you...' the elf said, but did not look at the girl. 'You're the beginning and the end. And 
because there was a question of destiny, know that this is your destiny. Being the beginning 
and the end. Do you understand?' 
Ciri hesitated a few seconds. But the vehement look from Auberon forced her to reply. 
'I understand.' 
'Take off your clothes,' he said it so casually and carelessly, she nearly exploded with 
anger. With trembling hands, she began to unbutton her bodice. The bodice was tight, and she 
had trouble with the hooks and buttons with her clumsy fingers. Although Ciri was in a hurry 
to get it over with, it took her a long time to take off her clothes. But the elf gave no sense of 
hurry. As if, indeed, he had all eternity. 
Who knows, she thought. Maybe he does. 
Once she was naked, she shifted from foot to foot, the ground was cold. Auberon realised 
and wordlessly, he pointed to the bed. The bedspread were mink. Extensivly formed by many 
skins sewn together. Warm, soft and comfortable. 
He lay beside her, dressed from head to toe, even with boots on. 
When he touched her, she could not help but stiffen and was angry with herself as she 
was determined to show him she was proud and distant to the end. Her teeth, needless to say, 
chattered slightly. But the elf's electrifying touch calmed her, and his fingers began to teach 
and give orders. To give directions. In time she began to assimilate so well to his indications 
she could almost anticipate them. She closed her eyes and imagined it was Mistle who was at 
her side. But it did not work because he was not at all like Mistle. 
His hand taught her what to do. She obeyed. Even happy. Hastily. 
He did not hurry. His touch was like soft silk. He made her moan. Biting her lip. He got 
her whole body to contract in a violent spasm. 
What he did then, she did not expect. 
He got up and walked away. Leaving her flushed, panting and trembling. 
He did not even look at her. 
Ciri's blood rushed to her face and forehead. She curled up on the mink bedspread. And 
began to sob in anger, shame and humiliation. 
 
*** 
 
The next morning, she sought out Avallac'h and found him at the rear of the palace. He 
walked along the row of statues that depicted, to her surprise, elven children. In various, 
mainly playful poses. Especially the one with which the elf was interested in – a little boy 
with his mouth contorted in anger, with clenched fists, standing on one leg. 

Ciri stared at it for a long time, she felt a dull pain in her stomach. Only when Avallac'h 
urged her, she told him everything. Fragmented and with frequent omissions. 
'He,' said the elf when she had finished, 'has seen the smoke from the fires of more than 
six hundred and fifty Saovines. Believe me, Swallow, that's a lot even for the People of the 
Alders.' 
'And what do I care?' she snapped. 'We have a contract! Have your relatives the dwarves 
not told you what a contract is? I fulfilled my obligations! I surrendered! What does it matter 
to me if he cannot, or will not? What do I care if he had impotence or is not attracted to me? 
Maybe he abhors Dh'oine? What if like Eredin, when he see me he see a gold nugget in a pile 
of manure?' 
'I hope,' Avallac'h face lost its usual calm and changed, 'you didn't tell him something 
like that?' 
'I did not say anything. And not for lack of desire.' 
'Be careful. You do not know what you risk.' 
'I do not care. We had an agreement and I am free.' 
'Be careful, Zireael,' repeated Avallac'h, noting the enraged expression on the statue of 
the boy's face. 'Do not behave like that here. Watch every word. Make an effort to 
understand. And if there is anything you do not understand, then do not use it as an excuse to 
act precipitously. Be patient. Remember that time is of no importance.' 
'For me it is!' 
'I told you not to behave like a stubborn child. I'll repeat – be patient with Auberon. It is 
your only chance at freedom.' 
'Really?' she shouted. 'I'm beginning to have my doubts! I'm beginning to suspect that 
you've tricked me! That you have all deceived me...' 
'I promised,' Avallac'h face was a dead as the stone of the statues, 'that you will return to 
your world. I've given my word. To doubt ones word is a very serious offence for the Aen 
Elle. To avoid you occurring such an offence, I propose that we settle this talk.' 
He went to leave, but Ciri blocked his way. He narrowed his aquamarine eyes and Ciri 
realised that she was dealing with a very dangerous elf. But it was too late to go back. 
'It is typical of an elf,' she hissed like a snake, 'to offend someone and not allow the other 
to take revenge.' 
'Be careful, Swallow!' 
'Listen to me,' she lifted her head proudly. 'You King of the Alders is unable to comply, 
to me that is more than clear. No matter if it is his problem or if I'm guilty. That is not 
important. But I want to enforce the agreement. I want to get it over with. So let someone else 
get me with child, which you care so much about.' 
'You do not know what you're talking about.' 
'And if the problem is me,' she did not change her tone or expression, 'that means you've 
made a mistake. Avallac'h. You've brought the wrong person to your world.' 
'You do not know what you mean, Zireael.' 
'If he abhors me, we'll use the method that horse breeders use. Do you know how they do 
it? They take a mare to the stallion and then blindfold it and put a donkey in front of it.' 
Avallac'h did not even deign to reply. He unceremoniously ducked and walked down the 
row of statues. 
'Or maybe you?' she screamed. 'Do you want me to give myself to you! What do you 
say? Are you not willing to make that sacrifice? But you say I have the eyes of Lara!' 
He stood beside her in two leaps, his hands shot out like snakes and closed around her 
neck like steel tongs. She realised that if he wanted to, he could choke her like a little bird. 
He released her. Then leaned over and looked into her eyes at close range. 

'Who are you,' he asked very quietly, 'to dare to so profane her name? Who are you to 
dare insult me with so miserable a pittance? Oh, I know, I can see who you are. You're the 
daughter of Lara Dorren. You are the daughter of Cregennan, you are an inconsiderable, 
arrogant, narcissistic dh'oine, a representative example of a race that knows nothing, but that 
has to ruin and destroy everything, who can defile with a touch alone and befoul with a mere 
thought. Your ancestors stole my love from me, smug and ruthlessly took her away. But you, 
are worthy to be his daughter, I will not let you take my memories of her away.' 
He turned away. Ciri overcame the resistance from her squashed larynx. 
'Avallac'h.' 
He looked at her. 
'Forgive me. I behaved stupidly and miserably. Forgive me. And, if you can, forget it.' 
He walked over to her and hugged her. 
'It's forgotten,' he said kindly. 'No more talk about the matter.' 
 
*** 
 
That night, when she appeared in the royal apartments, freshly bathed, perfumed and with 
her hair combed. Auberon sat at a table, leaning over a chess board. Wordlessly, he invited 
her to sit in front of him. 
He won in ten moves. 
The second time they played, she was white, but he won in eleven moves. 
Only then did he look up, showing his clear eyes, so unique. 
'Undress, please.' 
At least she had to acknowledge one thing – he acted with tact and never rushed. 
When, as on the previous occasion, he rose from the bed and left without saying anything, 
Ciri took it calmly and resignedly. Although she could not fall asleep until almost sunrise. 
But when the first rays of dawn lit the windows she fell asleep and had a very strange 
dream. 
 
*** 
 
Vysogota was hunched over, washing algae from his muskrat traps. In the wind they dry 
reeds rustled. 
'I feel guilty, Swallow. It was I who pushed you to the idea of this mad escapade. And I 
who pointed you the way to that cursed tower.' 
'Do not feel bad, Old Crow. If not for that tower, Bonhart would have gotten me. Here at 
least I am safe. 
'You're not safe here.' 
Vysogota straighten up. 
Behind him, Ciri could see a hill, bare and rounded, protruding from the grass like the 
bent back of a monster lurking in ambush. On the hill was a giant boulder. In addition to the 
rock, stood two figures. A woman and a girl. The wind tugged at the woman's black hair. 
On the horizon, lightning flashed. 
'Chaos stretches its hand towards you, daughter. Child of the Elder Blood. You are 
entangled in movement and change, in Destruction and Renewal. Chaos wants this power and 
it does not know if it is a tool to be used or an object in its plans. Not knowing if chance will 
make you a grain of sand in the gears of the clock of Fate. Chaos is afraid, Child Surprise. He 
wants to make you afraid, too. Therefore he sends you dreams.' 
Vysogota again hunched over and cleaned another trap. He is dead, Ciri thinks cooly. 
Does that mean that here in the afterlife, the dead are forced to clear muskrat traps? 

Vysogota straightens up. Behind him, the sky glows from the reflection of burning fires. 
Across the plains rush thousands of horsemen in red coats – Dearg Ruadhri. 
'Listen carefully, Swallow. The Elder Blood that runs through your veins confers 
immense authority. You are the Lady of Space and Time. You have a vast power. Do not let 
criminals and scoundrels snatch it and use it for their ignoble purpose. Fight back! Take it 
away from their thieving hands and wicked intentions!' 
'It is easy to say! I am trapped here by some barrier or magical bond...' 
'You're the Lady of Space and Time. Nobody can imprison you.' 
Behind Vysogota is a plateau, a rocky plain covered in the wrecks of ships. Dozens of 
wrecks. And looking back further, black, menacing, toothed battlements, rising over a 
mountain lake. 
'They'll die without your help, Swallow. Only you can save them.' 
Yennefer's lips, broken, torn, move without making a sound, shedding blood. Her violet 
eyes burn within her haggard face, her matted black hair falls around her dirty face. In a hole 
in the floor is a stinking puddle, there are rats everywhere. The walls of stone are cold. 
Chains bind her wrists and ankles... 
Yennefer's fingers are a mass of clotted blood. 
'Mother! What have they done?' 
Marble stairs led down. Three flights of stairs. 
Va'esse deireadh aep eigean... Something ends...What? 
Stairs. Below, a fire burns in braziers. Burning tapestries. 
Come on, Geralt says. Down the stairs. We have to. Yes you have to. There is no other 
way. Only those stairs. I want to see the sky. 
His lips do not move. They are bruised and stained with blood. Blood, blood 
everywhere... The stairs, covered in blood... 
'There is no other way. There isn't, Star Eyes.' 
'How? How can I help them? I am in another world? I am a prisoner! I cannot do 
anything!' 
'No one can imprison you. Everything has already been covered,' say Vysogota. ' Even 
this. Look at your feet.' 
Ciri sees with horror that she is standing in a sea of bones. Among skulls, tibias and 
bones. 
'Only you can prevent this from happening, Star Eyes.' 
Vysogota straightens up. Behind him, winter and snow. The wind blows and whistles. 
Before her, in a blizzard, on a horse is Geralt. Ciri knows it, But his head is covered in a 
fur cap and a woollen scarf covers his face. Behind him in the blizzard, loom other riders, 
their lines are blurred, so thickly bundled that it is impossible to discern what they are. 
Geralt looks straight at her. But he does not see her. Snow pours into his eyes. 
'Geralt! It's me! Here!' 
He does not see her. Cannot hear her over the howling of the storm. 
'Geraaaalt!' 
Sheep, Geralt says. It was probably just sheep. Let's go back. The riders disappear, 
melting into the falling snow. 
'Geraaaaaalt! Noooooo!' 
She woke up. 
 
*** 
 
In the morning she went straight to the stable, without breakfast. She did not want to run 
into Avallac'h, did not want to talk to him. She wanted to escape questioning, curious, 

intrusive elves and other their glances. Unlike any other matter they were clearly not 
indifferent regarding the royal bedchamber. Elves did not know how to hide their curiosity 
and Ciri had no doubt that the palace walls had ears. 
 She found Kelpie in her stall and brought up her saddle and harness. Before she could 
start saddling the mare, the little grey elves appeared two heads shorter than the Aen Elle. 
With smiles and bows they went to work. 
'Thanks you,' she said. 'I could have done it myself, but thank you. You are nice.' 
The closest elf smiled and Ciri flinched. In her smile she saw canine teeth. 
She approached her in a hurry, when Ciri almost fell down in shock. She brushed the hair 
from the servants ear. An ear that did not end in a point. 
'You're a human!' 
The servant fell to her knees on the swept floor. All the others knelt too. Bowing their 
heads. Expecting punishment. 
'I...' Ciri began, while fingering the reins. 'I...' 
She didn't know what to say. The servants were still kneeling. The horses snorted and 
stamped restlessly in the stables. 
Even outside in the saddle at a trot she could not muster any ideas. Human females. As 
maids, servants, but no matter. The main thing was that even in this world there are 
Dh'oine... 
Human, she corrected herself. I think as they do. 
She was jarred from her thoughts by Kelpie's loud whinny. She lifted her head and saw 
Eredin. He sat on his dark brown stallion, now free from his demonic combat gear. The rider, 
however, wore chainmail under his red jacket. 
The stallion screamed a hoarsely welcome, shook his head and grinned at Kelpie with 
yellow teeth. Kelpie, true to the principle that there are some issues that ventilate with the 
lords, not the servants, tries to put her teeth into the elf's thigh. 
Ciri held the reins tightly. 
'Be careful,' she warned. 'Keep your distance. My mare does not like strangers. And she 
bites.' 
'Those that bite,' he measure her with a supercilious look, 'should be curried with an iron 
brush. Until they bleed. This is the proven method for treating defiance. Not just for mares.' 
He jerked his reins so hard and violently, the horse grunted and backed away a few steps, 
from his mouth trickled foam. 
'What's with the chainmail?' the girl measured the elf in return. 'Are you going to war?' 
'On the contrary, I long for peace. You mares vices aside, does it have any virtues?' 
'What kind?' 
'Maybe speed. We'll have a race?' 
'If you want, why not,' she stood in the stirrups. 'There, in the direction of those 
cromlechs...' 
'No,' he interrupted. 'Not that way.' 
'Why not?' 
'It is forbidden ground.' 
'To everyone, of course.' 
'Not for everyone, of course. Your company, Swallow, is too valuable to us to risk that 
you'll lose it. On your initiative or at the initiative of others.' 
'On the initiative of others? You're not thinking about unicorns?' 
'I do not want to bore you with what I think. Nor be frustrated by the fact that you would 
not be able to understand my thoughts.' 
'I do not understand.' 

'I know that you do not understand. Evolution has not provided you with a sufficiently 
developed brain to understand. Listen, if you want to race, then I suggest we do so along the 
river. That way. To Porphyry Bridge, the third downstream, then to the other shore and 
further downstream to the mouth of the river. Ready?' 
'Always.' 
With a cry, the elf spurred the stallion, which took off like a hurricane, before Kelpie had 
even started, they had the advantage. But, though the earth was trembling in its wake, the 
stallion could not match Kelpie. The mare overtook him, just before reaching the bridge. The 
bridge was narrow. Eredin gave a cry and the stallion, incredibly, accelerated. Ciri 
immediately grasped what was going on. The bridge would not for anything in the world, fit 
two horses. One had to slow down. 
Ciri had no intention of slowing down. She clung to the mane and Kelpie pulled forward 
like an arrow. Ciri brushed the stirrup of the elf and flew onto the bridge. Eredin's stallion 
screamed, reared up and struck an alabaster figure, it fell from its pedestal and smashed into 
pieces. 
Ciri, giggling like a ghost, galloped across the bridge, without looking back. 
At the mouth of the river she dismounted and waited. 
He came at last, trotting, calmly, with a smile. 
'My appreciation,' he said, dismounting, 'for the mare and its rider.' 
Although proud as a peacock, she careless spat. 
'Ah! You should think about being combed with iron until you bleed.' 
'Unless you have consent,' he smiled ambiguously. 'There are mares who like strong 
caresses.' 
'Quite recently,' she looked at him defiantly, 'you likened me to a pile of manure. And 
now you're talking about caresses?' 
Eredin approached Kelpie, rubbed and patted her neck and looked surprised to see that 
the mare was dry. Kelpie abruptly withdrew her head and let out a prolonged shriek. Eredin 
turned to Ciri. If he also gives me a pat, she thought, He will regret it. 
'Come with me, please.' 
They walked along a stream, running down a steep, densely forested slopes, that led up to 
stairs made of rundown sandstone. The stairs were aged, cracked and torn by tree roots. All 
around them was forest, a primeval forest, where there were many old ash and hornbeam, 
yew trees, maples and oaks, there feet tangled in hazel bushes. It smelled of sage, nettle, wet 
stones, spring and mildew. 
Ciri walked quietly, without haste and with easy breaths. She also had her nerves under 
control. She had no idea what Eredin wanted from her, but she did not have the best feelings. 
Above the rock step, from which fell a narrow waterfall was a stone terrace. On it, shaded 
by elderberry bushes, was a gazebo wrapped in ivy. Below she could see the trees, the ribbon 
of the river and the roofs, terraces and colonnades of Tir Na Lia. 
They were silent for a while, watching the scene. 
 'Nobody told me,' Ciri was the first to break the silence, 'the name of the river.' 
'Easnadh.' 
'The Sigh? Nice. And this stream.' 
'Tuathe.' 
'Whisper. Also nice. Why did no one tell me humans lived in this world?' 
'Because that information is completely irrelevant to you. Let's go to the gazebo.' 
'What for?' 
'Let's go.' 
The first thing she noticed after entering was the wooden couch. Ciri felt her temples 
begin to throb. 

Sure, she thought, it was to be expected. I read a book in the temple about an affair, 
written by Anna Tiller. It was about an old king, the queen and the young duke from power 
hungry contenders. Eredin is ruthless, ambitious and determined. He knows that the one who 
is with the queen is the true king. A real man. He who possess the queen, possess the 
kingdom. Here, on this couch, starts a coup... 
The elf sat at a marble table, and pointed for Ciri to take a second chair. The view from 
the window seemed to be of more interest to him that she was, and he was not looking at the 
couch at all. 
'Here you will stay forever,' he said, 'my light butterfly. Until the end of your life.' 
She said nothing. She looked into his eyes intently. 
There was nothing in those eyes. 
'You will not be allowed to leave here,' he continued. 'They are unwilling to admit 
despite the prophecy and myth, you're nobody, you're nothing, only a creature without 
importance. Believe it, they will not let you go. They promised it to you, just to deceive you 
and to provide you your tractability. They never intended to make good on their promise. 
Never.' 
'Avallac'h,' she said hoarsely, 'he gave his word. Doubting an elf's word is apparently an 
insult.' 
'Avallac'h is Aen Saevherne. The Knowing ones have their own code of honour, which 
with many noble phrases conceal an old rule that the end justifies the means.' 
'I don't understand why you are telling me all this. Unless... You have something you 
want from me. You want to barter. What is it? Eredin? My freedom... For what?' 
He stared at her for a long time. And she vainly sought in his eyes some indication of a 
signal, a sign, anything. 
'Undoubtedly,' he began slowly, 'you already know little enough about Auberon. You 
certainly already noticed that he is ambitious. There are things that he'll never accept, never 
take note of. He'd sooner die.' 
Ciri was silent, biting her lip and glancing at the couch. 
'Auberon Muircetach,' said the elf, 'never uses magic or other means able to change a 
situation. But such means exist. Good, strong, guaranteed resources. Much more reliable than 
the pheromones that Avallac'h's maids blend into your perfume.' 
He quickly ran his hand over the veined marble table. When he removed his hand there 
was a bottle of grey-green jade. 
'No,' Ciri gasped. 'I will not. Absolutely not.' 
'You did not let me finish.' 
'Do not take me for a fool. I will not give him what is in this flask. I won't do those kind 
of things.' 
'You draw to hasty conclusions,' he said calmly, looking into her eyes, 'in this race, you 
are overtaking yourself. Something like that always ends in a fall. A very painful fall.' 
'I said no!' 
'Think it over. Regardless of what the bottle contains, you always come out ahead, 
Swallow.' 
'No!' 
With a quick and smooth motion, like a magician, the elf make the bottle disappear from 
the table. The he looked again at the river Easnadh, which meandered thought the trees, 
gleaming. 
'You'll die here, butterfly,' he said. 'They will not let you go. But the decision is up to 
you.' 
'I've made a covenant. For my freedom...' 

'Freedom,' he spat. 'You are still talking about freedom. What would you do if you 
finally regained it? Where would you go? Do you realise that you are on our world at the 
moment, not only in space but time. Time flows differently here that there. Those whom you 
knew as children are now elderly, those who you once knew have long since died.' 
'I do not believe it.' 
'Remember your legends. Legends about people missing and returning after a year, only 
to see the graves of their relatives covered by grass. Are you going to say that they were pure 
fantasy, things taken from stories? You are wrong. For centuries, people have been 
kidnapped, snatched by riders, by the Wild Hunt. Abducted, exploited and then thrown away 
like an empty shell once consumed. But do not expect to be that lucky, Zireael. You will die 
here, you will not see the graves of your friends.' 
'I do not believe what you say.' 
'That is your personal thing. You chose your destiny. Let's go back. I want to ask you 
something, Swallow. Would it be ok to have a meal together before going back to Tir Na 
Lia?' 
For a few heartbeats, hunger, fought fascination and anger, fear of poising and a general 
dislike. 
'I'd be happy to.' She looked down. 'Thank you for the invitation.' 
'Thank you. Let's go.' 
Upon leaving the gazebo, she looked back at the couch and thought that Anna Tiller was 
probably a fool and exalted graphomanic. 
Slowly, silently, between the smell of mint, sage and nettle, they went down the stairs. 
Down the banks of the steam, which was called Whisper. 
 
*** 
 
That night, when she entered the royal apartments, perfumed, her hair still wet after 
bathing, she found Auberon on a couch leaning over a thick book. Without words, with a 
simple gesture, he invited her to sit beside him. 
The book was richly illustrated. In fact, all that were in it were illustrations. Although Ciri 
tried to play the sophisticated lady, she felt her cheeks flush. In the temple library in Ellander 
she had seen similar works. But the book the King of the Alders had, those others could not 
compete in wealth or the variety of items, or the artistry of the imagery. 
They view it in silence for a long time. 
'Take off your clothes, please.' 
This time, he too undressed. His body was lean and boyish, almost like Giselher, 
Kayleigh or Reef, who see had often saw naked as they bathed together in rivers or lakes. 
However, the Rats radiated youth, the joy of life around them sparkling like drops of water. 
For him, the King of the Alders, throbbed cold eternity. 
He was patient. Several times it seemed that he was about to. But nothing came of it. Ciri 
was angry with herself, she thought her ignorance or inexperience was to blame. He 
recognised this and calmed her. As always effectively. And she fell asleep. 
In the morning her was not with her. 
 
*** 
 
The next night, for the first time, the King of the Alders showed signs of impatience. Ciri 
found him leaning over a table, where there was a mirror set in a frame of amber. There was a 
white powder on the mirror. 
Here we go, thought Ciri. 

With a knife, Auberon was gathering the fisstech and distributing it into two strips. He 
took a tube of silver off of the table and inhaled the drug through the nose, first by his left 
nostril, then his right. His eyes, usually bright, seemed off and turbid and filed with tears. Ciri 
immediately realised this was not the first dose. 
He made to new lines on the glass and with a gesture invited her over, passing the tube. 
What does it matter, she thought, it will be easier. 
The drug was incredibly strong. 
For a while they sat side by side on the bed and stared at the moon with watery eyes. Ciri 
sneezed. 
'Lacing night,' she said, wiping her nose with her silk sleeve. 
'Magic,' he corrected her, rubbing his eyes. 'Ensh'eass not en'leass. You have to pay 
attention to the pronunciation.' 
'I'll be careful.' 
'Take off your clothes.' 
At first it seemed that everything would be okay, that the drug had excited him the same 
way that she was excited. She came alive and took the initiative, whuile even whispering 
some indecent words. That made him react and the effect was tangible, and Ciri was sure that 
this time, surely... 
Again, it did not work. 
And then he became impatient. He got up and threw a sable fur around his shoulders. He 
stood there, turned towards the window and stared at the moon. Ciri sat up and wrapped her 
arms around her knees. She was frustrated and annoyed, but unusually vigorous. 
Undoubtedly it was the effects of the strong narcotics. 
'It's my fault,' she said. 'The scar has disfigured me. I know what you see when you look 
at me. There is not much elf in me. A gold nugget in a pile of manure...' 
He whirled. 
'You are extraordinarily modest,' he said. 'I would say, rather, a pearl in pig manure. A 
diamond on a rotting finger of a corpse. The language could devise other comparisons. 
Tomorrow I'll ask about them, little dh'oine. A human in which this is absolutely nothing 
elven.' 
He went to the table, picked up the tube and bent over the mirror. Ciri sat as if made from 
stone. She felt as if someone had spat upon her. 
'I do not come here out of love!' she snapped angrily. 'I come under blackmail and you 
know it! But I agreed to do it, for...' 
'For who?' he interrupted hotly, unlike your typical elf. 'For me? For the Aen Seidh 
trapped in your world? You stupid girl! You do it for yourself, you come here in vain trying 
to give. Because it is your only hope, your only hope of salvation. I'll tell you again – prey, 
prey fervently to your human god, idols or totems. Because if it is not me, then it will be 
Avallac'h and his laboratory. You cannot even imagine what it would mean for you to go 
there and submit to the alternative.' 
'I don't care,' Ciri said in a muffled voice, curling up on the bed. 'I agreed to everything, 
just to regain my freedom. To be able to finally rid myself of you. To leave. To my world. To 
my friends.' 
'Your friends!' he sneered. 'Here is your friend!' 
Suddenly he turned and threw the fisstech covered mirror. 
'Here is your friend,' he repeated. 'Look closely.' 
He left the room, the sable fur trailing on the ground. 
She looked into the mirror and saw only her blurred reflection. But almost immediately 
the mirror brightened and filled with smoke. And then an image. 

Yennefer hanging in an abyss, her arms raised taunt above her head. The sleeves of her 
dress are like the outstretched wings of a bird. Her hair is wavy and fish swim among it. A 
whole school of fish flicker around her. Some start to nibble at the cheeks and eyes of the 
sorceress. From Yennefer's legs a rope leads down to the bottom of a lake, trapped between 
the mud and seaweed, a large basket of stones. Above in the sky, the sun shines down on the 
face of the water. 
Yennefer's dress ripples around her like seaweed. 
The smoke obscures the surface of the mirror, stained with fisstech. 
Geralt, pale as glass, his eyes closed, is still frozen under some long icicles hanging from 
rocks, and will soon be buried by the blizzard. His white hair is now a mass of ice, a white 
frost envelops his eyebrows, eyelashes and lips. The snow will not stop falling on Geralt, it 
surrounds him covering his legs and shoulders with a soft blanket. 
The blizzard howls and whistles... 
Ciri jumped up and slammed the mirror hard against the wall. The amber frame burst and 
the glass shattered. 
She recognised these kind of vision, she remembered them and knew what they were. Her 
old dreams. 
'This is not true,' she cried. 'You hear me, Auberon! I don't believe it! It's a lie! A 
deception! It's just your anger, helpless at yourself! It's your anger...' 
She sat down on the floor and began to cry. 
 
*** 
 
She suspected that the walls of the palace had ears. The next day, she could not endure 
the looks directed at her, she felt like they were laughing at her back. Avallac'h was nowhere 
to be found. 
He knows, she thought, what happened and is trying to avoid me. Before I got up, he 
probably got far away, by land or by river, with his gold makeup elf. He doesn't want to talk 
to me, doesn't want to recognise that all of his plans have collapsed. 
She could also not find Eredin. But that was quite normal – he was often out of the city 
accompanied by his Dearg Ruadhri, his Red Riders. 
Ciri went and got Kelpie from the stables and went across the river. She was deep in 
thought and took no notice to anything around her. 
I have to escape. It does not matter if those visions were true or false. On things is certain 
– Yennefer and Geralt are far away in my world and my place is with them. I have to get 
away, get out of here as quickly as possible. There must be some possibility. The same way I 
got here, O have to get myself out of here. Eredin suggested that I have a wild talent and 
Vysogota thought the same thing. I examined every corner of Tor Zireael, I found no portal, 
no exit. But maybe there is another tower somewhere... 
She looked to the horizon and saw a remote hill, on whose summit towered against the 
sky, silhouettes of cromlechs. A forbidden area, she thought. Ha, I can see that it is too far. 
The barrier will probably not let me get there. It would be pointless exertion. I'd rather head 
up the river, I've never been there... 
Kelpie snorted, shook her head and stamped her feet. She did not turn around, instead she 
started trotting towards the hill. Ciri was stunned for a moment to the point that she did not 
respond and let the mare run. Only after a while did she shout and pull on the reins. The 
result was that Kelpie reared, kicked and galloped onwards. Still in the same direction. 
Ciri did not try and stop her, or try and control her. She was amazed. She knew Kelpie 
very well. The mare had quirks, but not like this. This behaviour must mean something. 

Kelpie slowed to a trot. She wentt up the side of the hill crowned with the cromlechs. A 
league or so, Ciri thought. The magic barrier will start to work soon. 
The mare walked into the circle of stones, formed by a series of monoliths, fallen and 
mosses, very close together, which arose thought the brambles and suddenly sank into the 
ground. She did not move a muscle, except her ears, which stretched to hear better. 
Ciri tried to turn her around and move. But it was in vain. If it wasn't from her neck veins 
throbbing hot, she would have sworn she was sitting on a statue of a horse. 
Suddenly, she felt something on her shoulders, something sharp that went through her 
clothes and prodded her, hurting. Something was behind her. Emerging from behind some 
rocks, making no noise, appeared a unicorn with a red coat, with precise movements it thrust 
its horn under her armpit. Hard. Sharply. She felt blood trickle from her side. 
From the other side emerged another unicorn. This one was completely white, from the 
tips of its ears to the end of its tail. Only his nostrils were pink and his eyes black. He 
approached her from the side, slowly, and very carefully put his head in her lap. The 
excitement was so strong that Ciri moaned. 
I've grown up, a voice echoed in her head. I've grown up, Star Eyes. Then in the desert, I 
did not know how to behave. Now I know. 
'Little horse?' she moaned, almost hanging from the two hors that were clicking together. 
My name is Ihuarraquax. Do you remember me, Star Eyes? Do you remember how you 
healed me? How you saved me? 
He stepped back and turned around. Ciri could see a trace of a scar on his leg. She 
recognised him. She remembered him,. 
'Little horse! It is you! But you had a different coat... You've grown up.' 
Suddenly then was confusion in her head, whispers, voices, shouts and whinnies. The 
horns drew back. She saw that the other unicorn behind her back coat was blue. 
The older ones are learning from you, Star eyes. Through me, they are learning from you. 
A little more and they'll be able to speak for themselves. Soon they will tell you what they 
expect from you. 
The cacophony in Ciri's head exploded in an indescribable riot. But soon it relented, and 
began to flow like a stream of thoughts, clear and understandable. 
We want to help you escape, Star Eyes. 
She was silent, but her heart pounded in her chest. 
Where is the crazy joy? Where is the thanks? 
'Where,' she asked aggressively, 'does this sudden urge to help me come from? Perhaps I 
failed to win your love?' 
You have our love. But this is not your world. There is no place for you here. 
She clenched her teeth. Although encouraged by the sudden hope, she shook her head 
dismissively. Little horse – Ihuarraquax – ears pricked up, stamped his hooves and stared at 
her with his black eyes. The red unicorn stamped until the earth trembled and shook 
menacingly. He snorted angrily and Ciri understood. 
You do not trust us. 
'I do not trust you,' she said coldly. 'Everyone here plays their game and I, who don't 
know the rules, am being used. Why should I believe you now? Between you and the elves 
apparently there is no friendship, I saw it there, in the wilderness, and there was almost a 
fight. I can safely assume that you want to use me to annoy the elves. I also do not like them, 
they imprisoned me and forced me to do something that I did not want. But I will not let you 
use me.' 
Red shook his head, his horn again made a dangerous move. Blue whinnied. Ciri's skull 
thudded and picked up their thoughts which were ominous. 

'Oh, she said. 'You're just like them. Be obedient and show humility, or violence and 
death! I'm not afraid. I will not be used!' 
She felt chaos and confusion in her head. It lasted for a while, until from the chaos 
emerged legible thoughts. 
That's fine, Star Eyes, you do not like being used. That is precisely our idea. What we 
want, no more no less, is to guarantee that. For you and for ourselves. And the entire world. 
In all worlds. 
'I don't understand.' 
You're a dangerous weapon, a threat. We cannot let that weapon fall into the hands of the 
King of the Alders, the Fox and Sparrowhawk. 
'Who?' she said 'Oh...' 
The King of the Alders is an elder. But the Fox and Sparrowhawk cannot gain mastery 
over the Ard Gaeth, the Gate of Worlds. Once they had it. And then lost it. Now all they can 
do is wander between the worlds as impotent ghosts. The Fox has reached Tir Na Bea 
Arainne, and Sparrowhawk and his riders can get to the Sprial. They do not have the strength 
to go anywhere else. That's why they dream of Ard Gaeth and power.We can show you how 
to use that power. I'll show you, Star Eyes, when you leave here. 
'I can't escape from here. I can't get past the magic barrier – Geas Garadh.' 
You cannot be imprisoned. You are the Lady of the Worlds. 
'No. I have no special talent, I have no control over anything. And I renounced my 
powers a year ago, back in the desert. Little horse witnessed it.' 
In the desert you gave up only insignificant quackery. The power that is in your blood, 
you cannot give up. It is with you all the time. We well teach you how to use it. 
'And it is not by chance, she cried, 'that this power that gives dominion over worlds, you 
want me to give to you?' 
Not so. We do not need to gain this power. For we have had it forever. 
Trust them, Ihuarraquax requested. Trust them, Star Eyes. 
'On one condition.' 
The Red unicorn abruptly raised his head, opened his nostrils and she could swear his 
eyes threw sparks. They will not like it, Ciri thought, when I give them the condition, they do 
not even like the sound of the word. The Plague, I do not know what I'm doing... I hope this 
doesn't end in tragedy...' 
We are listening. What is this condition? 
'Ihuarraquax will come with me.' 
 
*** 
 
That evening the sky became cloudy and it became muggy, from the river rose a thick, 
stick mist. When it became dark, from afar came muffled thunder and lightning lit up the 
horizon. 
Ciri had long been prepared. Dressed in black riding clothes, with her sword on her back, 
tense and impatient, waiting for the coming of night. When it came, she silently walked 
through deserted halls and stealthily took arcades and descended terraces. The willow rustled 
down by the River Easnadh. 
In the sky distant thunder rolled. 
Ciri got Kelpie from the stables. The mare knew what was expected of her and obediently 
trotted towards Porphyry Bridge. Ciri stared for a moment behind her, looking at the terrace 
where the boats were moored. 
I can't, she thought. I have to see him again. Maybe it will succeed in delaying pursuit. 
It's risky, But it cannot be helped. 

At first, she thought he was not there, that the royal apartments were empty, the silence 
and stillness were absolute. 
After a moment, she saw him. He was in a corner, sitting on a couch, with a white shirt 
that exposed his narrow shoulders. The fabric was so delicate that if clung to his body as if 
wet. The face and hands of the King of the Alders were almost as white as his shirt. 
He looked up at her, those eyes were empty. 
'Shiadhal?' she whispered. 'Thank goodness you're here. You know, they have been 
saying that you're dead.' 
He opened his hand and something fell to the carpet. It was the grey-green bottle. 
'Lara,' the King of the Alders shook his head and touched his neck as if the golden royal 
torc'h was choking him. 'Caemm a me, Luned. Come to me daughter. Caemm a me, elaine.' 
His breath smelled of death. 
'Elaine blath, fainne wedd...' he crooned. 'Look, luned, you have untied your ribbon... 
Let me...' 
He tried to raise his hand, but he failed. He sighed deeply, raised his hand abruptyly and 
looked into her eyes. This time they were alive. 
'Zireael,' he said, 'Lod'hlaith, you are destined to be the Lady of the Lake, and mine as it 
turns out.' 
'Va'esse deireadh aep eigean...' he said after a moment and Ciri in horror realised that 
his movements and words had begun to slow. 
'But,' he added with a sigh, 'it is a good thing that, something also begins.' 
Through the window cane the lengthy sound of thunder. The storm was still far away. 
But it was fast approaching. 
'Yet,' spoke the king, 'I have no desire to die, Zireael. And I find it terribly sad that it has 
to happen. Who would have thought. I thought that I would have no regrets. I have live a long 
time, I have known everything. I'm bored of it all... However, now I fell regret. And do you 
want to know something else? Come closer, I whisper it. Let it be our secret.' 
Ciri leaned forward. 
'I'm afraid,' he whispered. 
'I know.' 
'Are you with me?' 
'I am.' 
'Va Faill, Luned.' 
'Goodbye, King of the Alders/' 
She sat beside him, still holding his hand after his breathing hushed and ceased. She did 
not wipe away her tears. She let them flow. 
The storm was approaching. On the horizon lightning burned. 
 
*** 
 
She ran down the marble staircase to the pier at which the boats bobbed. She untied one 
of them which she had set her eye on that evening. She left the pier, pushing off with a 
mahogany pole that had previously been used to hang curtains. She doubted the fact that the 
boat would obey her commands like it did Avallac'h. 
The boat glided silently downstream. Tir Na Lia was dark and quiet. Only the status on 
the terraces gazed at her with dead eyes. Ciri was counting bridges. 
 The sky above lit up with a flash of lightning. After a second, thundered rumbled across 
the sky. 
The third bridge. 

Something flashed across the bridge, quiet, agile, like a big black rat. It rocked the boat 
when it jumped into the bow. Ciri dropped the pole and drew her sword. 
'I see,' hissed Eredin Breacc Glas, 'you want to deprive us of your company?' 
He also drew his sword. During a brief lightning flash she was able to see the weapon. 
The blade was single-edged, slightly curved, with polished finish and uniformly sharp. The 
hilt was long and the hand-guard was a circular plate. She could see right away that the elf 
knew how to use the sword. 
Unexpectedly, he rocked the boat, stomping on the side. Ciri deftly balanced by tilting her 
boat with the movements of the boat, and in turn used the same trick when he jumped with 
both feet on the opposite side. He did not lose his balance either. 
He attacked. She parried his lunged rather instinctively, because in the dark she could 
barely see. She returned his attack with a quick bottom cut. Eredin parried and struck out 
again, Ciri deflected the blow. From the blades, sparks flew. 
Again he rocked the boat. Ciri spread her arms and balanced on the bench. He stepped 
towards the bow and lowered his sword. 
'Where did you learn all this, Swallow?' 
'You'd be surprised.' 
'I doubt it. The river can overcome the barrier. Did you figure this out yourself or did 
someone advise you?' 
'I doesn't matter.' 
'Yes it does. And we'll find out. We have our ways. But now, drop the sword and return.' 
'Never.' 
'We are going back, Zireael. Auberon is waiting. I guarantee that tonight he will be full of 
desires and requests.' 
'I doubt it,' she said. 'He overdosed on the stimulant you gave him. Or was it meant to do 
something else entirely?' 
'What are you talking about?' 
'He's dead.' 
He quickly shook of his surprise and lunged at her, rocking the boat. She balanced and 
exchanged a few angry cuts, the water carried the sound of the vibrant clash of steel on steel. 
Lightning lit up the night. Another bridge passed overhead. 
One of the last of Tir Na Lia's bridges. Or is it the last? 
'Surely you realise, Swallow,' he said hoarsely, 'that you are only delaying the inevitable. 
I cannot let you leave.' 
'Why? Auberon is dead. And I'm nobody and of no importance. It was you who told me 
that.' 
'Because that is the truth,' he said raising his sword. 'You mean nothing. You are a tiny 
moth, which I can crush between my two fingers into silver powder. But if left alone, you can 
do irreparable damage to the most precious fabric. You are nothing. Nothing but annoying.' 
Lightning flashed again. In the light Ciri could see what she wanted to see. The elf had 
his sword raised and waving, pointing to the back of the boat. He had the height advantage. 
She had to win the next attack. 
'You dared to take up arms against me, Zireael. It's too late to regret or forgive something 
like that. I will not kill you. But a few weeks in bed with bandages will do you good.' 
'Hold on. I want to say something else. I want to reveal a secret.' 
'What do you have to tell me?' he laughed. 'What pathetic secret?' 
'This, that you will not fit under this bridge.' 
Without any time to react, he hit the bottom of the bridge, and flew forward, losing his 
balance completely. Ciri could simply throw him out of the boat, however, that was not 

enough and she was afraid that he would continue his pursuit. Moreover, he intentionally or 
by negligence killed the King of the Alders. And he had to feel pain. 
She stabbed him in the thigh, just below the chainmail. He did not even scream. He 
jumped overboard into the river and the waters closed over him. 
She turned back to see what was going to happen. It took a long time before he floated to 
the top. In a flash of lightning she watched him made his way to the shore and remain lying in 
the mud and blood. 
'A few weeks in bed in bandages,' she muttered, 'will do you good.' 
She grabbed the pole and pushed hard. The Easnadh river was getting more rough, the 
boat ran faster. Soon she left the last of the buildings of Tir Na Lia behind. 
She did not look back. 
At first it was very dark, the boat sailed through the old forest, the trees and branches 
touched together above the river, creating a tunnel. Then it began to brighten. The forest 
ended and on both sides were alders, reeds and cattails. In the clear river appeared clusters of 
aquatic plants, drifting on the current. When the lightning flashed, she noticed circles on the 
water, and before the thunder drowned out all sound, she heard the splashing of startled fish. 
Several times, not far from the boat, she saw big phosphorescent eyes, and the boat repeated 
collided with something big and alive. 
Everything in this world seems beautiful, but to strangers it means death, she silently 
repeated Eredin's words. 
The river widened and islands and channels began to appear. She allowed the boat to sail 
on luck, along with the current. But she began to be afraid. What happens If I make a mistake 
or flow the wrong branch? 
While she thought, she heard a whinny from Kelpie and hear an intense mental signal 
from the unicorn. 
'There you are, Little horse!' 
We must hurry, Star Eyes. Follow me. 
'To my world?' 
First I have to show you something. I was ordered to by the elders. 
They rode firstly through the forest steppe, then through densely chopped ravines and 
gorges. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. The storm was getting closer and the wind 
raged. 
The unicorn led Ciri to one of the gorges. 
It is here. 
'What is here?' 
Go down and see. 
She obeyed. The ground was uneven and she stumbled. There was a click and something 
rolled under her feet. There was a flash and Ciri gasped. She was in the middle of a sea of 
bones. 
The had been a landslide probably because of the intensity of the downpours. And it had 
revealed what it had been hiding. A graveyard. A large mass grave. A huge pile of bones. 
Tibiae, pelvis, ribs, femurs. Skulls. 
Ciri picked one up. 
Again the lightning flashed and she screamed. She knew whose bones were lying here. 
The skull which had been cleaved by a sharp blade had canines. 
Now you know. Now you understand. They did this, the Aen Elle, the King of the Alders, 
the Fox and Sparrowhawk. This world was not originally their world. They made it theirs 
when they conquered it. When they opened the Ard Gaeth. With our help, because we had 
been used and abused and now they are trying to use and abuse you. 
Ciri threw the skull. 

'Rogues,' she cried into the night. 'Murderers!' 
Thunder rumbled. Ihuarraquax snorted, loudly, warningly. She understood. With a single 
jump she was in the saddle and spurred Kelpie to a gallop. 
Following in their footsteps were pursuers. 
 
*** 
 
This is not the first time this has happened, she thought, feeling the wind in her face as 
she galloped. Not the first time. This wild ride in the dark, in the middle of the night, chased 
by ghosts, spectres and apparitions. 
 'Forward, Kelpie!' 
In the glow of the lightning, Ciri could see through her watering eyes willows and alders 
along the trails. But these were not trees. They were hunched monsters coming at her from 
both sides, with their twisted and gnarled limbs, rotten laughter coming from a black mouth 
cavity. Kelpie neighed shrilly and ran so fast it looked like her hooves did not touch the 
ground. 
Ciri laid flat on the back of her neck. Not only to reduce air resistance, but also in order to 
avoid the alder branches that wanted to knock her off or pull her from the saddle. The 
branches whipped and beat her, catching at her clothing and hair. The twisted trunks shook 
and the cavities snickered. 
Kelpie neighed wildly. The unicorn responded. He was a bright white spot in the dark, 
showing her the way. 
Ride, Star Eyes! Ride as fast as possible! 
It became more and more difficult to dodge the alder's branches. Very soon they blocked 
the way. 
Behind them they heard shouting. It was the voices of their pursuers. 
Ihuarraquax neighed. Ciri received his signal. Understood the importance. She adhered 
herself to Kelpie's neck. She did not need to encourage her, the frightened mare ran at a 
breakneck gallop. And other signal from the unicorn roughly broke into Ciri's mind. A 
council or rather an order. 
Jump, Star Eyes. You have to jump. To another place, another time. 
Ciri did not understand, but struggled too. She made every effort to understand. She 
concentrated. Concentrated while whispers and blood pounded in her ears... 
Lightning flashed. And then, suddenly it was dark, soft, black darkness, without a single 
beam of light. 
Her head ached and there was a buzzing in her ears. 
 
*** 
 
She felt a cool breeze on her face. Drops of rain. The smell of pine. Kelpie snorted and 
puffed. She was wet and hot. Ciri could see Ihuarraquax. He stood shaking his head and his 
horn. Pawing at the ground with his hooves. 
'Little horse?' 
I'm here, Star Eyes. 
The sky was full of stars. Full of constellations. The Dragon. Lady Winter. The Seven 
Goats. And low on the horizon – the Eye. 
'It worked,' she sighed. 'We have succeeded, Little horse. This is my world!' 
His tone was so clear that Ciri understood everything. 
No, Star Eyes. We escaped from them. But this is still not the right place, or the right 
time. You still have a long way to go. 

'Don't leave me alone.' 
I will not leave. I owe you a debt. And I will repay it. Until the end. 
 
*** 
 
The wind picked up and the clouds were swept to the west and gradually enveloped the 
constellations. The Dragon disappeared and after the Lady Winter and the Seven Goats. The 
brightest and longest glowing was the Eye. Ultimately, however, it also was covered. On the 
horizon lightning flashed briefly followed by the sound of thunder. The wind picked up dust. 
The storm was once again catching up. 
The unicorn whinnied and sent another mental signal. 
We must not waste time. Our only hope is a quick getaway. To the right place and thr 
right time. Hurry, Star Eyes. 
I am the Lady of the Worlds. I am of the Elder Blood. The blood of Lara Dorren, 
daughter of Shiadhal. 
Ihuarraquax neighed again, prompting her to hurry. Kelpie replied. Ciri pulled on her 
gloves. 
'I'm ready.' 
There was a roar in her ears. A flash. Then darkness. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The majority of historians tend to award the process, conviction and execution of 
Joachim de Wett to the violent, cruel and tyrannical nature of Emperor Emhyr. Especially 
some works, whose authors have a fondness for literature about revenge and personal 
reckoning. The time has come to tell the truth, a truth that for a thorough researcher is 
obvious. The Duke de Wett commanded the Verden Operations Group to which the word 
"ineffective" is extraordinarily delicate. Although having been arrayed against forces with at 
least twice their numbers, separated from the offensive in the north, he directed all of their 
activities to fighting the Verden guerrillas. The Verden Operations Group committed unheard 
of atrocities against civilians. The results were easy to foresee and inexcusable – in the 
winter the insurgent forces were calculated at about five hundred armed men, by the spring it 
was almost the entire country. King Ervyll, an imperial ally, was murdered and the uprising 
was led by his son, Prince Kistrin, a northerner sympathizer. Flanked by the pirate's ships of 
Skellige, in front from the Nordlings of Cidaris and from behind by the rebellion, de Wett 
engaged in chaotic battles, suffering defeat after defeat. Thus the offensive for the Center 
Army Group was delayed. Instead of Verden being bound to the west flank of the armies 
"Center" to enable Menno Coehoorn's forces quick action, they in fact slowed down their 
campaign. So there was a delay and disruption of the offensive strategic plan. The 
Northerner immediately took advantage of the situation and went on the counterattack, 
undoing the siege around Mayena and Maribor, destroying the chances of a rapid 
reoccupation of these important strengths. 
The inefficiency and stupidity of de Wett also had a psychological importance. The myth 
of the invincibility of Nilfgaard vanished. The army of the northerners began to receive 
hundreds of volunteers... 
 
Restif de Montholon 
The Northern Wars: Myths, Lies and Propaganda 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter Six 
 
 
Jarre, needless to say, was disappointed. The education he received at the temple and his 
own outgoing personality had led him to have faith in human goodness, kindness and 
selflessness. Now there was not much left of that faith. 
He had slept for two night in the open on the remains of haystacks, and now it looked like 
he'd be spending his third night the same way. In each of the villages that he had sought 
shelter or a crust of bread, the gates had been closed up tight and the only responses he 
received were a deep silence of insults and threats. No matter how he explained who he was 
and where and what purpose he was travelling. 
He was very, very disappointed by people. 
It soon grew dark. The boy walked quickly and briskly along a path though some fields. 
He looked around for a haystack, resigned and dejected at the prospect of having to stay 
another night out in the open. In fact, March had been unusually warm, but at night it was 
very cold. And he was afraid. 
Jarre looked to the sky, which, like every night for almost a week, you could see a golden 
and red comet that swept across the sky from west to east, dragging behind it a line of fire. 
He thought about what could cause such a herald, a phenomenon mentioned in many 
prophecies. 
He took up the march. It was getting darker. The path led down a corridor of thick bushes 
that became dark terrifying shapes in the shadows of twilight. From below the bushes where 
darkness reigned blew the cold nasty smell of weeds in a state of putrefaction and something 
more. Something very bad. 
Jarre stopped. He tried to convince himself that what was crawling on his back and 
shoulders was not fear, but cold. It had no effect. 
Ahead a low bridge linked the banks of a canal, black and shiny as freshly poured tar, the 
banks were covered with reeds, willows and deformed ash. In places the bridge had rotten 
planks, and large holes gaped in the bridge, the railing was broken and the rails were 
immersed in water. Around the bridge, willows grew densely. Although it was still far from 
real night, in the distant meadow behind the canal glowed the ragged bits of mist which clung 
to the grass, and among the willows darkness reigned. Through the darkness Jarre caught a 
blurry glimpse of the ruins of a building, probably a mill or a shack. 
I have to cross the bridge, thought the young man. Nothing can be done. Although I can 
feel that something lurks on the other side, I have go to the other side of the canal. I have to 
cross the canal, as did the legendary leader, or was he a hero? Who I read about in the worn 
manuscripts at the temple of Melitele. Cross the canal and then... How was it? The cards will 
be laid out? No, I will cast the dice! Behind me is the past, before me is spread my future... 
He walked to the bridge and immediately saw that his premonition had not failed. Before 
he saw them, he heard them. 
'Well,' growled one of those who now stood in his way. Did I not say? A little patience, 
and we have already encountered somebody.' 
'You were right, Okultich,' replied the other. 'You could set yourself up as a clairvoyant. 
Well, lonesome wanderer, relinquish to us everything you have, will you be good or do we 
have to help?' 
'But I have nothing!' screamed Jarre with all the force in his lungs, hoping that someone 
would hear and come to his aid. 'I am just a poor traveller! I do not have a penny on me! 
What can I give you? This stick? My clothing?' 
'That too,' replied the other with a lisp, something in his voice caused Jarre to shudder. 
'So you know, poor traveller, we expected better loot. Or at least to have fun with a girl from 

the village. But soon it will be night and now nobody will come. But where there is no fish, 
crab must suffice. Take him, guys!' 
'I warn you,' shouted Jarre. 'I have a knife!' 
Indeed he did. He took it with him from the temple's kitchen before he fled and hid it in 
his bag. But he did not reach for it. He was paralysed by the knowledge that it would be an 
absurd gesture and no one would help. 
'I have a knife!' 
'Well, well!' sneered the man with the lisp, approaching. 'He has a knife. Who would 
have thought!' 
Jarre could not flee. Fear had made his legs become two stakes nailed to the ground. 
Adrenaline had tied him by the neck like a noose. 
'Hey!' suddenly cried a third voice, youthful and somehow familiar. 'I think I know him! 
Yes, yes, I know him! Jarre? Do you recognise me? It's Melfi. Do you remember me, Jarre?' 
'I... remember,' Jarre struggled with all of his strength against a powerful, ugly and so far 
completely unknown to him feeling. Only when he felt pain in his side, from hitting the 
planks on the bride, did he realise the sensation. The feeling of the loss of consciousness. 
 
*** 
 
'What a surprise!' repeated Melfi. 'Such a coincidence to meet a native from Ellander. 
And a friend. Isn't it, Jarre?' 
Jarre swallowed the mouthful of bacon, which the strange company had given to him, 
along with some roasted turnips. He did not answer, just nodded his head in the direction of 
all six surrounding the campfire. 
'What direction are you headed, Jarre?' 
'To Vizima.' 
'Ha! We are also headed to Vizima! What a coincidence! What do you say to that, 
Milton? You remember Milton, Jarre?' 
Jarre did not remember. He was not even sure if he had seen him before. Furthermore, 
Melfi, too, was exaggerating a bit calling him a friend. He was the son of the Cooper in 
Ellander. They had both attended the minor seminary in the temple, Melfi had regularly and 
severely beat Jarre and called him a bastard conceived of nettles, without a mother or father. 
It lasted about a year, after which the Cooper had taken his son from school and confirmed 
that the boy was only intended for barrels. That was Melfi – instead of devoting the sweat of 
his brow to learning the secrets of reading and writing, he devoted his sweat and blood in his 
father's workshop, sanding staves. And when he finished his studies, Jarre, with a 
recommendation of the temple found a job as the assistant town clerk, and the journeyman 
cooper bowed deeply to him and assured him of their friendship. 
'Let's go to Vizima,' said Melfi. 'To the army. All of us here, as one group. Those there 
are Milton and Ograbek, sons of serfs, but have been removed from their obligations, you 
know...' 
'I know,' Jarre looked at the two young, blond villagers who were as alike as brothers. 
'They conscript one out of ten fiefs. And you Melfi?' 
'With me,' sighed the cooper, 'mind you, this happened – the first time the army came to 
recruit my father paid them off . But the second time, we had to draw straws... well you 
know...' 
'I know,' Jarre nodded again. 'The draw to enlist was decreed by the city council on 
Ellander, the decreed is dated January sixteenth. It was inevitable against the threat of 
Nilfgaard...' 

'Listen, Pike, to how he speaks,' said on husky, broad-shouldered lad, who first shouted 
at Jarre on the bridge. 'Like some kind of sage.' 
'Wisearse. Fucking know it all,' contributed another of the companions, whose round 
face was pasted with a stupid grin. 
'Shut up, Klaproth,' snarled Pike, the oldest boy in the group, who already boasted 
narrow droopy moustache. 'If he is a sage, the a man should listen to what he says. It doesn't 
hurt to learn something. Learning has never hurt anyone. Well, almost never. And almost 
anyone.' 
'What is true is true,' announced Melfi. 'Jarre, is in fact not stupid. He is a scholar and he 
learned to read and write in Ellander at the temple of Melitele and takes care of their library.' 
'I wonder,' Pike looked at Jarre thought the smoke from the fire, his eyes glistened like an 
actual pike in the light of the torch at the bow of a fishing boat, 'what a scholar is doing on 
the road on the way to Vizima?' 
'Like you,' said Jarre. "I'm going to join the army.' 
'Why would some kind of fucking know it all go and join the army? Sanctuaries do not 
have to supply recruits And every fool knows how to rescue the service and claim to his 
scribe. What is it then, Sir Officer?' 
'I'm going to enlist as a volunteer,' said Jarre. 'I want to enlist out of choice, not 
mandatory conscription. Partly for personal reasons, but mainly from a sense of patriotic 
duty.' 
The group burst into loud, thundering laughter. 
'Look, guys,' said Pike after he caught his breath, 'you can find a double temperament in 
some people seated in contradictions. Two natures. Here is a youngster; he would seem to be 
well educated and experienced and in addition surely not a born fool. You ought to know 
what happens in war – someone attacks someone else and kills them. And he, like you has 
joined by their own volition and person reasons and patriotic obligations but joins the losing 
side.' 
Nobody said anything. Neither did Jarre. 
'Such feelings of patriotic obligations,' said Pike, 'reliably reveal those who are weak in 
the head. But you also spoke about personal reasons. I'm dangerously curious, what are these 
personal motivations?' 
'They are personal,' said Jarre, 'and I'm not going to be talking about them. I'd rather 
you speak of your own reasons.' 
'Pay close attention to what I say,' Pike said after a moment of silence. 'you are not 
talking to some kind of yokel. But do not worry scribe... I will forgive you this time. I'll even 
answer. Yes, I'm going into the army and also as a volunteer.' 
'How weak in the head should someone be to join with the losers?' Jarre was surprised at 
his sudden audacity. 'And on the way, stripping travellers on bridges?' 
'Ha,' Melfi burst out with laughter, 'he still cannot forgive the trap by the stream. Jarre, it 
was just for fun! We were just joking, right, Pike?' 
'Sure,' Pike yawned. 'It was just an innocent prank. Life is sad, like a cow being led to 
the slaughter. People will do anything for fun, don't you think, scribe?' 
'I think. In principle.' 
'That's fine,' Pike did not take his shining eyes off of him. 'Otherwise you would have 
had to make the trip to Vizima alone.' 
Jarre was silent. Pike stretched. 
'I've said what I wanted to say. Well, guys, the fun is at an end, it is time to hit the sack. 
We have until tomorrow evening to get to Vizima, we hike at daybreak.' 
 
*** 

 
The night was very cold, despite his fatigue; Jarre could not sleep, curled up under his 
blanket, his knees almost touching his chin. When he finally feel asleep, he slept poorly and 
nightmares plagued him. Upon awakening he remembered only two. 
In the first dream he saw the Witcher Geralt or Rivia who occasionally visited mother 
Nenneke. The witcher sat motionless under icicles hanging from an overhanging rock and 
was snowed in from a blizzard. In the second dream, Ciri was hunched over a horse's neck, 
galloping towards a low wall of alders. 
Oh yes, and just before dawn he dreamed of Triss Merigold. After he last stay in the 
temple the young man dreamed of the enchantress often. Those dreams had consequences, for 
after waking up he was very ashamed. 
This time, however, nothing of the sort happened. It was just too cold. 
 
*** 
 
In the morning they did indeed march at dawn. Milton and Ograbek, the children of serfs, 
added a note of encouragement by singing a military song: 
 
Go on, brave warrior! 
Your armor rumbles like thunder. 
Don't run, girl, he wants to kiss you. 
Just give it to him, you won't regret it, 
After all, the handsome solider is going to fight for us! 
 
Pike, Okultich, Klaproth and Melfi, walked together like lice on a beggar and told silly 
jokes and anecdotes, which in their opinion were outrageously funny: 
'...And the Nilfgaardian asks "What's that smell?" and the Elf says, "Shit!", Ha, ha, ha!' 
'Hahahahahaha!' 
'Ha, ha, ha, ha! Do you know this one? An elf and a dwarf are going to Nilfgaard...' 
As time passed they met other travellers on the road, walking and driving, farm carts, 
merchants and military units. Some vehicles were loaded with food and Pike walked after 
them with his nose practically pressed to the ground, like a retriever, collecting anything that 
fell off the back – a carrot here, a potato there and sometimes even some onions. Some of the 
food they devoured on the spot and some they saved for later. 
Jarre was waiting for any chance or reason to separate from them. He did not like Pike or 
Okultich. He did not like the looks that Pike and Okultich threw the wagons of the merchants 
who passed or the carts of the farmers with girls and women sitting in the carts. He did not 
like the mocking tone Pike put on when he spoke of his purpose of volunteering for the 
military at a time when it was clear and inevitable they would be defeated. 
The air smelled of freshly ploughed earth. And smoke. In a valley between the regular 
checkerboard fields they saw fruit trees and between them the crowns of a thatched roofs. 
They heard dogs barking, roosters crowing and cattle lowing. 
'Nice village,' Pike said. 'Not to big but neat and rich at first sight.' 
'Here in the valley,' Okultich hurried to explain, 'halflings have settled. They organise 
everything neatly. They are diligent stewards.' 
'Non-humans are cursed,' snarled Klaproth. 'Fucking kobolds. They are thriving here 
while everyone else is in poverty. Not even the war affects them.' 
'For now,' Pike's lip curled back in an ugly grimace. 'Remember this settlement, boys. 
Remember it well. If we ever wanted to take a look there, I would not like to wander.' 
Jarre turned his head. He pretended not to hear. He watched the road in front of them. 

They continued their journey. Ograbek and Milton started singing a new song. Not a 
military song, but something much grimmer. It could have been, after Pike's previous 
references, taken as an ominous sign. 
 
People listen and learn the cruelty of death. 
Old, young or brave, 
No one escapes the Reaper. 
No mercy from his scythe. 
 
*** 
 
'He,' Okultich said quietly, 'must have some money. I'll be damned if he does not have 
silver.' 
The subject for whom Okultich had made the bet was a merchant who was travelling 
along the road, walking with a two wheeled wagon being pulled by a donkey. 
'Money calls money,' Pike lisped, 'and the little donkey would also be worth something. 
Lead the way, boys.' 
'Melfi,' Jarre pulled on the cooper's sleeve, 'open your eyes! Do you not see what is 
brewing here?' 
'These are just jokes, Jarre,' Melfi pulled away. 'They are only joking...' 
Close up they could see that the cart was also a stall that he could set up in a few 
moments to spread his wears ready for sale. The cart was covered with a tarpaulin which 
doubled as a sign that praised the shopkeepers range – protective amulets, talismans and 
scapulars, roots and medicinal drugs, magic potions and all sorts of spices, elixirs and 
magical poultices, precious metal detectors as well as infallible bait for fish, ducks and 
maidens. 
The merchant, a thin elderly man, looked around and saw them, swore and urged his 
donkey forward. But the donkey like any ass did not go faster. 
'He's wearing a pretty decent outfit,' Okultich quietly appreciated. 'And I'm sure we'll 
find things in the cart.' 
'Well, boys, let's get to it,' Pike commanded, 'while there are few witnesses on the road.' 
Jarre could not believe his courage, when he ran a few quick steps ahead of the gang, 
turned and stood between them and the merchant. 
'No!' he uttered with difficulty, as if his throat was being squeezed. 'I won't let you...' 
Pike carelessly parted his long cloak and pointed at a knife on his belt, which was without 
a doubt sharp as a razor. 
'Move aside, pen-pusher!' Pike lisped with hatred. 'If you want to save your throat. I 
thought you were looking for adventures with our company, but no, I see your temple has 
made you a prude, you stink of incense. Get out of the way now, because otherwise...' 
'What is happening here? Huh?' 
From behind the bushes at the side of the road, emerged two eccentric looking figures. 
Both men wore waxed moustaches curled upwards that looked like a colourful danish pastry, 
they wore quilted jackets decorated with ribbons and big, soft, velvet berets with tufts of 
feathers. In addition they wore wide belts with hanging daggers and both men wore on their 
backs two-handed swords, about a meter in length, with long hilts. 
The landsknecht emerged from the bushes after having apparently fulfilled their 
necessary requirements. Although they behaved with ostentatious carelessness and did not 
reach towards their swords, Pike and Okultich immediately backed away and went limp and 
Klaproth looked like a deflated bladder. 
'We... we're not...' stammered Pike. 'Nothing wrong with...' 

'Just a joke,' whined Melfi. 
'No one was hurt,' the old merchant said unexpectedly. 'So no big deal.' 
'We,' Jarre said quickly, 'are on our way to Vizima. We have to report for conscription. 
By chance maybe that is the way you are travelling, gentlemen soldiers?' 
'By chance we are,' chuckled the landsknecht, who immediately understood what was 
going on. 'We are also going to Vizima. Whoever is interested can go with us. We will be 
safer together.' 
'In any case,' the other landsknecht measured Pike and his henchmen with penetrating 
eyes. 'I would like to add that we met a sheriff's patrol a short distance away. His men are 
angry they have to trudge through the country, instead of sitting somewhere warm. They are 
keen to hang any robbers they find on the roads.' 
'Very well,' Pike recovered and showed his teeth in a fake smile. 'Very well, the law 
punishes rogues and keeps order. Then let us be on our way to Vizima, to the army, because 
patriotic duty calls.' 
The landsknecht looked at him for a long time and rather contemptuously, then shrugged 
his shoulders, adjusted the sword on his back and walked by. His companion, Jarre and the 
merchant and his wagon and donkey followed him, and a short distance behind, Pike's mob. 
'I thank you, gentlemen soldiers,' said the merchant driving his donkey. 'And I thank 
you, your sir.' 
'You're welcome,' the landsknecht waved his hand. 'It happens.' 
'A wide range of people are being recruited for the military, 'said the second fellow 
looking back over his shoulder. 'They arrive at a village or a town and order one out of every 
ten men. Often the first thing they do is take advantage of the opportunity to get rid of the 
crooks, which is worse, because then the road become full of robbers. Oh, like those back 
there. However, once they reach the training center a soldier will club some discipline into 
them. Everyone learns to listen when they are forced to run down a corridor of sticks a few 
times.' 
'I,' Jarre was quick to clarify, 'wish to enlist as a volunteer, not forced.' 
'I noticed right away,' the landsknecht looked at him, 'you're a different breed from those 
rascals. So why are you with them?' 
'Chance brought us together.' 
'I have seen many such pairings,' said the experienced soldier seriously, 'which together 
by chance led them to the gallows. Take a lesson from that, my boy.' 
'I will.' 
 
*** 
 
Before the clouds obscured by sun it stood at its zenith, they reached the highway. There 
awaiting them was a large group of travellers who had arrived before them, Jarre and his 
companions had to stop because the road was completely blocked by military troops. 
'They're heading south,' said one of the landsknechts. 'To the front. To Maribor and Mayena.' 
'Look at their banners,' nodded the other. 
'Redania,' said Jarre. 'Silver eagle on purple.' 
'Smart boy,' said the landsknecht patting him on the shoulder. 'Yes, it is Redanian 
soldiers that have been sent to help by Queen Hedwig. Finally the kingdoms are united again 
– Temeria, Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen, now we are allies for a common cause.' 
'It's about time,' Pike said from behind them with obvious sarcasm. The landsknecht 
looked, but said nothing. 

'Let's sit down,' Melfi said. 'Get some rest. The crowd of troops is not near the end, it 
will take a while before the path is clear.' 
'We can sit on that hill,' the merchant pointed. 'We will have a better view.' 
The Redanian light cavalry passed rapidly past them, raising dust. Behind them marched 
the crossbowmen. Behind them came a column of heavy cavalry. 
'Those,' Melfi pointed to an armoured knight, 'march under another banner. A black 
standard, dotted with white speckles.' 
'From what sunken hole did you climb?' the landsknecht shook his head. 'You do not 
know the banner of your own king? These are the silver lilies, you blockhead...' 
'Black field covered with silver lilies,' Jarre said, who wanted to show that he definitely 
climbed from no hole, and hurriedly explained – 'The old coat of arms of the Kingdom of 
Temeria was a striding lion. Only the crown princes used a different standard to put on their 
shields, the three fleur de lys. The heraldic symbolisms of the lilies are a sign of the crown 
prince, heir to the crown and sceptre...' 
'Fuckin know it all,' muttered Klaproth. 
'Shut your mug, pig heads,' warned the landsknecht. 'And you, my boy, keep going. This 
interests me.' 
'When prince Goidemar, son of old King Gardic went to fight Falka's evil insurgents, the 
army fought under this under the coat of arms of the lilies, making a decisive advantage. And 
when Goidemar inherited the throne from his father, in memory of those victories and the 
miraculous salvation of his wife and children from enemy hands, he instituted the coat of 
arms of three lilies on a black filed for his kingdom. And then King Cedric changed the 
official flag by special decree, so now it is a field strewn with silver lilies. And this is 
Temeria's crest today. Which you can visually verify without difficulty, since on the road 
move Temerian spearmen.' 
'You explained that very well, young sir,' praised the merchant. 
'Not I,' said Jarre, 'but Jan of Attre, a scholar of heraldry. 
'And obviously you are as well versed.' 
'Fucking great then,' said Pike in a low voice, 'that he is being recruited by the banner of 
the silver lilies, for the king of Temeria.' 
Suddenly they heard singing. The deep, threatening, like an approaching thunder storm. 
Following in the tracks left by the Temerians, came another army in close formation. A grey, 
almost colourless cavalry, over which waved no flags or banners. At the front of the column 
carried on a pole was a horizontal staff decorated with horses' tails from which three human 
skulls hung. 
'The Free Company,' the landsknecht pointed at the riders. 'Condottiere. An army of 
mercenaries.' 
'Even the untrained eye can see that they are seasoned,' Melfi sighed. 'I would serve with 
them. They ride in formation, as if on parade...' 
'The Free Company,' repeated the landsknecht. 'Behold, beardless yokels, those are true 
soldiers. The same condottieri was present at the battle of Mayena- Adam Pangratt, 
Lorenzo Molla, Frontino and Julia Abatemarco where they decided to attack and broke the 
siege and liberated them from Nilfgaard's strength.' 
'In combat they are unyielding as solid rock,' added the other. 'War is a craft for them, 
and they provide their service for money, as you can easily deduce by their songs.' 
The company approached at a walk, their singing thundering above their heads, but with a 
strangely discordant note. 
 
No sceptre nor throne do we serve, 
No alliances with kings, 

We serve the coin, like the golden sun, 
At its order, we swiftly obey! 
 
We do not take your oaths, 
We bow to no flag nor kiss hands, 
We serve the coin, which shines like the sun 
Our oath we give eternal. 
 
'I would like to serve with them,' Melfi breathed again. 'To fight at their side. Capturing 
fortune and fame.' 
'Do my eyes deceive me?' Okultich furrowed his brow. 'Who rides at the head of the 
crowd? A female? Are these mercenaries fighting under the command of women?' 
'She is not just any woman,' growled the landsknecht. 'It is Julia Abatemarco who they 
call Pretty Kitty. All of her enemies tremble before her. This company comprises barely a 
thousand men, but before the gates of Mayena they cut down three thousand Black ones and 
elves.' 
'I heard,' Pike said in a humble, yet disgustingly vitriolic tone, 'that famous victory was 
for nothing, that the gold coins used for their pay was wasted unnecessarily. Nilfgaard 
recovered and again inflicted on our people a good lesson. They besieged Mayena again. 
Maybe even took it. Maybe they are stretching their strength to the north. Maybe they 
Nilfgaard bought these well-paid mercenaries. Maybe...' 
'Maybe,' interrupted the landsknecht coldly, 'you want me to smash your lying mouth, 
bastard! And yet you're lucky, because barking against one's own army is punishable by 
hanging. So hold your tongue before I run out of patience!' 
'Oooh!' the burly Klaproth said, opening his mouth widely. 'Oh, look at you! Dwarfs are 
more fun!' 
On the road, under the deafening din of drums, the blaring of bagpipes and the shrill 
whistle of fifes, marched a formation of infantry armed with halberds, battle-axes and spiked 
flails. Clad in pointed helmets, leather and chain shirts were soldiers far smaller than usual. 
'Dwarves of the mountains,' said the landsknecht. 'Some of the regiments of the 
Mahakam Volunteer Army.' 
'I thought,' said Okultich, 'the dwarves fought against us. That these filthy tadpoles 
betrayed us to the Black ones...' 
'You thought?' the landsknecht looked at him with pity. 'I wonder what with? If you 
swallowed a cockroach in you soup, dolt, you would have more intellect in your gut than in 
your head. Those who march there are one of the dwarven regiments of infantry, sent to aid 
us by Brouver Hoog, Governor of Mahakam. They have already entered combat, suffering 
heavy casualties during the battle of Mayena they drove back the Black ones.' 
'Dwarves are brave people,' confirmed Melfi. 'I met one once, at an inn in Ellander 
during the celebration of Saovine and he gave me such a slap in the ear that I had a ringing in 
them until the feast of Yule. 
'The regiment of dwarves is the last column,' the landsknecht shaded his eyes with his 
hand. 'End of the parade. The road will be free soon. Let's get moving it is almost noon.' 
 
*** 
 
'So many people are moving arms to the south,' nodded the merchant. 'There will be a 
great war, a great misfortune. People will perish by fire and sword by the thousands. Did you, 
gentlemen, see the comet in the firmament night after night, dragging a red tail behind it? 
When a comet has a pale tail, it announces disease and epidemics, plague, cholera and 

leprosy, a comet with a bluish tail portents disaster, floods, cloudbursts, or prolonged rain. A 
red colour indicates that t is a comet of fire and blood and iron that are born of fire. Severe 
disasters will fall on people, death and bloodshed. What is said in the old prophecy – corpses 
will cover the earth, hear the howl of the wolves and those who miraculously survive, will cry 
with happiness when they find traces of another living person... Woe to us!' 
'Why us?' the landsknecht interrupted coldly. 'The comet is flying high, certainly it can 
be seen from Nilfgaard. And the Ina valley, where Menno Coehoorn camps. If it can be seen 
by the Black ones, why not believe that it portends disaster and misfortune for them and not 
us.' 
'Right!' agreed the second landsknecht. 'Woe to the Black ones!' 
'You, gentlemen, are exceedingly clever.' 
'Absolutely.' 
 
*** 
 
They left the woods and went into meadows and pastures surrounding Vizima. Here 
grazed herds of horses used for riding and towing. Now in March, the grass in the meadow 
was scarce, but in the meadow stood wagons filled with hay. 
'I cannot believe my eyes,' Okultich licked his lips. 'Herds of horses and no one watching 
them! Just choose one and...' 
'Shut up,' growled Pike from between his teeth, smiling at the mercenaries, 'This one, 
gentlemen, is dying to serve in the cavalry. He enjoys looking at horses.' 
'Serve in the cavalry?' the landsknecht spluttered. 'Have no illusions of riding on 
horseback. Such as you would be useless unless you were cleaning the stables or moving 
manure with a bucket and wheelbarrow!' 
They continued on and soon arrived at the dock that ran along the ponds and channels. 
And suddenly above the tops of the alder spotted the red-tiled towers of Vizima castle which 
stood by the river. 
'We're almost there,' said the merchant. 'Can you smell it?' 
'Pu-ugh!' Melfi cried. 'What a stink! What is it?' 
'Probably the soldiers who have died waiting for the king to pay them,' muttered Pike 
form behind them, but so the landsknechts could not hear. 
'A wonder your snout doesn't break, huh?' laughed one of them/ 'We are approaching the 
camp, where during the winter thousands of troops camped. An army has to eat and shit too. 
So it was established by nature and nothing that can be remedied! And all that shit has to go 
somewhere. Like in those pits over there, where they go and cover it with soil. In winter, it 
remains frozen and you can withstand it a bit, but come spring... Pah!' 
'Do you hear that buzz?' the second landsknecht sniffed. 'There are clouds of flies and in 
the spring it will be an unheard of thing. Cover your face as best you can, because these flies 
go rampaging through the mouth and eyes. Let's pick up the pace, the faster the better.' 
 
*** 
 
They left the trenches behind, but failed to lose the smell. On the contrary, Jarre would 
have given his head, the closer to the city, the worse the smell got. And much more diverse. 
The smell surrounded the city stank of military camps and tents. It smelled of hospitals. I 
stank of crowded and busy boroughs, squares and streets, the walls above the city stank. 
Luckily the nostrils soon grew accustomed to it and could not tell the difference between 
either dung or carrion or whether it was cat urine or the next inn. 

Flies where everywhere. Buzzing annoyingly like experienced soldiers, crawling into 
mouths, noses, eyes and ears. The insects could not be driven off and it was easier to crush 
them on their faces. 
As they left the darkness of the city gate, Jarre's eye fell upon a huge poster of a painted 
knight, who pointed his finger at him. The inscription beneath the knight in capital letters 
read – WHAT ABOUT YOU? HAVE YOU ENLISTED? 
'Yes,' muttered the landsknecht. 'Unfortunately.' 
There were many similar signs, hung on almost every available wall. Most were of the 
knight pointing his finger, often also with a pathetic looking mother with billowing grey hair, 
standing in the background of burning villages and babies impaled on Nilfgaardian stakes. 
Another popular motif was pictures of elves with bloody knives in their teeth dripping blood. 
Jarre turned around and suddenly realised they were alone – the landsknecht, the 
merchant, and himself. Pike, Okultich, Klaproth, Melfi and the rural recruits were gone 
without a trace. 
'Well, well,' the landsknecht confirmed his conjectures looking around inquisitively. 'As 
I expected, your comrades took off at the first opportunity, rascals, gave us the slip at the first 
corner. But you know what I'll tell you, boy? Be glad that your paths diverged. And wish that 
you had never met.' 
'I'm sorry for Melfi,' Jarre murmured. 'He is not a bad person.' 
'Each person chooses his own destiny. Come with us. We will show you were to recruit.' 
They entered a square with a stone platform in the center, on it stood a pillory. 
Around the pillory townspeople and soldiers thronged. The condemned had mud and shit 
flung at their faces, they were spitting, spluttering, screaming and crying. The crowd laughed. 
'Wow!' cried the landsknecht. 'Look who is locked in the stocks! It's Fuson! I wonder 
why he is in there?' 
'For farming,' a fat burgher in wolf fur and a felt hat hastened to explain.' 
'For what?' 
'For farming,' the fat man repeated with emphasis. 'For planting.' 
'Ha! So you spoke clearly, forgive me,' the landsknecht laughed. 'That's nonsense, I have 
known Fuson for many years. He is a shoemaker, the son of a shoemaker and grandson of a 
shoemaker. In his life it has never occurred to him to plough or sow or reap. Where did you 
come to such a towering pile of shit, sir?' 
'The magistrate read the judgement,' the man said indignantly. 'It is said the criminal will 
stay in the pillory until tomorrow morning for on the command of Nilfgaard he has sown 
some strange, exotic herb. Probably poisonous... Wait, I remember... Oh! Defetyzm!' 
'Yes, yes!' cried the merchant. 'I heard talk of it. The Nilfgaardian spies and the elves are 
spreading epidemics, poisoning wells, springs and streams with various poisons such as 
hemlock, typhoid and defetyzm.' 
'That's right,' said the fat man in the felt cap. 'Yesterday in the square they hanged two 
elves. Surely for such poisonings.' 
'In this street,' the landsknecht pointed, 'is an inn, with a draft board in the office. Good 
luck kid, and perhaps the gods with let us meet in better times. Farewell, and you, Mister 
merchant.' 
The merchant cleared his throat. 
'Kind gentlemen,' said the merchant rummaging through little chests and trunks on his 
cart, 'for your help... As a sign of gratitude...' 
'Do not trouble yourself, good man,' the landsknecht said with a smile. 'Let's not speak 
of it.' 
'How about a magic ointment against arrows?' the old man rummaged through a trunk. 
'Or an effective and versatile tool for the treatment of asthma, gout, paralysis and to remove 

dandruff? Or a balm for bee stings or if you have been bitten by a rabid dog, vipers or a 
vampire? Or a talisman against the evil eye?' 
'And you do not have anything,' the second landsknecht said seriously, 'for the effects of 
bad food?' 
'I have!' cried the merchant. 'Here it is, the most effective antidote developed from 
magical roots, spices and herbs. Three drops will suffice after each meal. Please take it, noble 
lords.' 
'Thank you. Farewell, sir. You too, boy.' 
'Honest and decent gentlemen,' said the merchant, when both the landsknecht 
disappeared into the crowd. 'It's not every day you find people like that. Nor like you, young 
sir! What can I give you then? An amulet against lightning? A bezoar? Turtle pebbles 
effective against spells of charming? Aha! I even have a hanged man's tooth and a piece of 
devil shit...' 
Jarre tore his gaze away from a group of people fiercely washing paint from the wall of a 
house which read – DOWN WITH THE FUCKING WAR! 
'No need,' he said. 'It is time for me...' 
'Ha!' the merchant shouted and pulled out a brass medallion in the shape of a heart. 'This 
is the right thing for a young man. It is truly unique, I have only one such amulet. It is a 
magic charm. It makes the one who carries it never forget his love, even if time and many 
miles separate them. Look, inside is a piece of papyrus, with magical red ink that I have, you 
just write the name of the loved one and she will never forget or betray you. What do you 
think?' 
'Hmmm...' blushed Jarre. 'I don't know...' 
'What name,' the merchant dipped a quill into his magic ink, 'should I write?' 
'Ciri. I mean Cirilla.' 
'Done. Here you go.' 
'Jarre! Bloody hell! What are you doing here?' 
Jarre turned impulsively. I'd hoped, he thought, that I would leave my past behind, that 
everything would be all new and I seem to constantly bump into old acquaintances. 
'Dennis Cranmer!' 
A dwarf dressed in a heavy fur coat, steel armour, arm guards and a fox-skin hat with a 
tail cast a penetrating look at the boy, then the merchant, then again at the boy. 
'What are you doing here Jarre?' he asked sternly, his brows, beard and moustache 
bristling. 
For a moment the boy thought to lie and get the good-hearted merchant to confirm it. He 
immediately gave up this idea. Dennis Cranmer, who had once served in the guard in the 
Principality of Ellander, enjoyed the reputation of being a dwarf who was difficult to deceive. 
And he knew it was not worth the try. 
'I'm going to enlist in the army.' 
He knew what the next question would be. 
'Do you have permission from Nenneke?' 
He did not respond. 
'You ran away,' Dennis Cranmer stroked his beard. 'You fled from the temple. And 
Nenneke and the priestesses are probably pulling out their hair...' 
'I left a letter,' grumbled Jarre. 'Mister Cranmer, I could not... I had to... One cannot sit 
idly by while the enemy is on his border... in a time of threat to one's homeland... and... 
Ciri... Mother Nenneke banned me. She sent three quarters of the sanctuaries girls to the 
army, but she did not want me to go. But I had to...' 

'So you ran away,' the dwarf wrinkled his brow. 'By a thousand sacramental demons! I 
should tie you to a stick and send you back to Ellander. I should order you locked up in a 
cave until the priestesses come and pick you up! I should...' 
He snorted angrily. 
'When was the last time you ate something, Jarre? How long since your throat had a hot 
meal?' 
'Hot meal? Three... No, four days ago.' 
'Come with me.' 
 
*** 
 
'Eat slower, son,' Zoltan Chivay, one of Dennis Cranmer comrades rebuked him. 'Not so 
fast, it's not healthy to swallow without chewing properly. Where are you going in a hurry? 
Believe me; no one is going to take the pot away.' 
Jarre was not so sure. In the main hall of the Hairy Bear inn a duel of fisticuffs was being 
held. Two stubby dwarves as wide as stoves were banging fist together so loud that the noise 
rang over the top of the clamour and cheers from the companions of the regiment. The plank 
floor creaked, dishes fell from shelves and blood from broken noses sprayed the surrounding 
area like rain. Jarre was afraid that one of the opponents would soon roll over the table and 
throw the wooden platter with pork, cooked peas and earthenware pints to the floor. He 
swallowed a chunk of meat without swallowing, because the last few days had taught him 
that anything could befall you. 
'I don't understand, Dennis,' said another dwarf at the table called Sheldon Skaggs, 
without paying attention to the fact that one of the fighters after a hard blow almost rolled 
over his back. 'If the boy is a priest, how is he going to enlist? The blood of priests should not 
be spilled.' 
'He was schooled at the temple, he's not a priest.' 
'Damn, I can never understand those human superstitions. But it is not proper to mock 
other people beliefs... However, since this young man was only brought up in the temple, 
there is nothing against the shedding his blood. Especially Nilfgaard's. What do you say, 
boy?' 
'Let him to eat in peace, Sheldon.' 
'I will answer...' Jarre took a bite of pork with a spoonful of peas. 'I think the spilling of 
blood in a righteous war is permissible and justified. That's why I want to enlist. The 
motherland is calling.' 
'You can see for yourself,' Sheldon Skaggs looked at his companions, 'how much truth 
there is in the assertion that humans are a race closely akin to our own and that we derive 
from the same root, both them and us. The best proof is sitting in front of us and eating peas. 
In other words, the same stupid enthusiasm we see in young dwarves.' 
'Especially after Mayena,' said Zoltan Chivay calmly. 'After winning a battle voluntary 
enlistment always rises. The momentum will cease as soon as the news that Menno Coehoorn 
is heading up the Ina River, leaving land and going by water.' 
'I only wish that the rush was the other way,' muttered Cranmer. 'I do not have 
confidence in the volunteers. It is interesting that every second deserter is a volunteer.' 
'How can you...' Jarre almost choked. 'How can you suggest something like that, sir... I 
volunteer from patriotic motives... For the motherland...' 
One of the dwarves had fallen during the fistfight, the boy thought the he had shaken the 
foundations of the building, because the dust from the cracks in the floor planks rose as high 
as a raised arm. However, this time he stayed down, rather than jumping back up and 

pouncing on his opponent, he lay on the floor, feebly moving his limbs so he looked more 
like a giant beetle on his back. 
Dennis Cranmer stood up. 
'The issue is resolved,' he announced in a thundering voice, looking around the taproom. 
'The post of company commander, vacant after the heroic death of Elkana Foster, killed in 
the field of honour during the battle of Mayena, will be occupied by... What is your name, 
son, I have forgotten?' 
'Blasco Grant!' the winner of the match spat a tooth on the floor. 
'Blasco Grant is the new commander. Does anyone have any objection to his promotion? 
There are none? All right. Innkeeper! Beer!' 
'What were we talking about?' 
'Of a just war,' Zoltan Chivay began to count on his fingers. 'Of the volunteers. Of the 
deserters...' 
'Oh, that!' Dennis interrupted him. 'I knew I wanted to explain something concerning 
volunteers, deserters and traitors. I remember the late volunteer army for the Marshal of 
Cintra, Vissegerd. The motherfuckers, it turns out, have not even changed their banner. I 
know this from the condottieri of the Free Company from Julia "Pretty Kitty". At Mayena 
they encountered the Cintrans. Those sons of bitches were fighting alongside Nilfgaard under 
the banner of the golden lion...' 
'Called on by their motherland,' Skaggs said gloomily. 'And the future Empress Cirilla.' 
'Shh,' said Dennis. 
' Right,' said the fourth dwarf Yarpen Zigrin who had been silent up until now. 'Hush! 
And quieter than silence. But not because of fear of spies, but because you cannot talk about 
things you have no fucking idea about.' 
 'And you, Zigrin,' Skaggs puffed out his beard. 'You know something about this?' 
'Aye, I know. I tell you one thing – nobody, not even Emhyr var Emreis, nor those 
treacherous sorcerers from Thanedd, not even the devil himself could force that girl to do 
anything. They did not manage to break her. I know it. Because I know her. It's a hoax this 
whole marriage to Emhyr. A deception that has led many fools astray... Also I'll tell you, 
that girl's destiny is quite different.' 
'You talk,' muttered Skaggs, 'as if you really know her, Zigrin.' 
'Leave him!' Zoltan suddenly scolded. 'Her fate is different. I think so to. I have my 
reasons for it.' 
'Bah!' Sheldon Skaggs replied, shaking his hands. 'Why spend saliva in vain. Cirilla, 
Emhyr, destiny... They are distant issues. Our concern is Menno Coehoorn the Field Marshal 
of the Center Army Group.' 
'Well,' sighed Zoltan Chivay. 'It seems to me that we are not going to escape a battle. 
Perhaps the biggest in known history.' 
'Much will be decided,' muttered Dennis Cranmer. 'A lot will end.' 
'Everything...' Jarre belched and covered his mouth with his hands, embarrassed. 
'Everything ends.' 
The dwarves watched him for a moment, silent. 
'I don't think I fully understand you,' Zoltan finally said. 'Could you explain what you 
mean?' 
'At the royal council in Ellander I heard...' stammered Jarre. 'There was talk about a 
great victory in this war; it was so important that... That this war put an end to all wars.' 
Sheldon Skaggs snorted, spitting beer onto his beer. Zoltan Chivay roared with laughter. 
'What do you think, gentlemen?' 
Now it was Dennis Cranmer's turn to burst out laughing. Yarpen Zigrin retained his 
seriousness. He studied the young man attentively and seemed concerned. 

'Son,' he said very seriously. 'Look. There, sitting at the counter is Evangelina Parr. She 
is admittedly, substantial. Indeed, even great. But despite her actions, not one whore can put 
an end to all whores.' 
 
*** 
 
 When they left the inn, Dennis Cranmer took the young man aside. 
'I have to praise you, Jarre,' he said. 'Do you know why?' 
'No.' 
'Do not pretend. Before me, you do not. It is worthy of praise that you did not blink an 
eye when they mentioned Ciri. Do not look as if you don't know what I mean. I know a few 
things that were happening at Nenneke's temple. I also heard the name that you had entered 
in the heart medallion.' 
The dwarf pretended not to notice the blush that suffused the boy's face. 
'Keep it up, Jarre. And not only about Ciri... What are you looking at?' 
On the wall of a granary visible at the entrance to an alley stood a blurred painting, 
written in lime, which read – MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR. 
Just below, with significantly smaller letters, someone had scrawled the following 
message – MAKE SHIT EVERY MORNING. 
'Look the other way, stupid,' Dennis Cranmer barked. 'Just seeing such inscriptions can 
get you in trouble. Do not say no out of place, or they tie you to a post and whip you bloody. 
Here the trials are very fast! Incredibly fast!' 
'I saw,' Jarre whispered, 'a shoemaker in the pillory. He allegedly sowed defetyzm.' 
'The sowing,' the dwarf said seriously, pulling the boy's sleeve, 'probably consisted of 
the fact that the father was driving his son to the military, and he cried and shouted about 
patriotism. For the more serious sowing there is a different punishment. Come on, I'll show 
you.' 
They entered a small square. Jarre had to pull back and cover his nose and mouth with his 
sleeve. On a huge gallows hung several bodies. Some, from their appearance and smell, had 
been hanging there for some time. 
'That one,' said Dennis, while swatting away flies, 'wrote silly phrases on the walls. He 
said that war is a thing of lords and peasant recruits and that Nilfgaard were not their 
enemies. That one was drunk and told the following anecdote – "What is a spear? The 
weapon nobles stick a poor man at each end." And there, at the end, you see the old woman? 
She was the mistress of a military brothel, and had decorated a sign with this – "Fuck today, 
warrior! Because tomorrow you may not be able to."' 
'And just for that...' 
'One of the girls, it was revealed later, also had gonorrhoea. And that came within the 
paragraph of conspiracy and sabotage of combat capabilities.' 
'I understand, Mister Cranmer,' Jarre took a stance that he considered military. 'But do 
not worry about me; I am not a defeatist...' 
'You do not understand shit and do not interrupt me, I have not finished. The last one that 
was hanged, who stinks already, their only crime was the during a talk with an undercover 
informer, responded saying – "You are correct my friend, it is not." Now you can tell me you 
understand.' 
'I understand,' the boy looked around cautiously. 'I'll be careful. But... Mister 
Cranmer... What is really happening?' 
The dwarf also glanced around carefully. 
'The truth,' he replied in a whisper,' is that the strength of Field Marshal Menno 
Coehoorn's Center Army Group is a hundred thousand men. If there was no rebellion in 

Verden, he would be here. The truth is that neither of our combined armies have enough 
power to stop Coehoorn. At least not before the strategic line of the Pontar.' 
'The river is north of us,' whispered Jarre. 
'Well, you wanted to hear the truth. But remember to keep a lock on your mouth.' 
'I'll be careful. And once I enlist? I have to be careful around the soldiers? In case there is 
a spy among them?' 
'In a combat regiment? Near the front line? On no! Spies are too busy far from the front, 
because they are afraid of ending up there themselves. Also, if every soldier who protested, 
complained or cursed was hanged, there would be no one to fight this war. But your mouth, 
Jarre, as in the case of Ciri, keep it closed. Now come with me, I will escort you to the 
Commission office.' 
'Mister Cranmer,' Jarre looked with hope at the dwarf. 'Will you speak for me there?' 
'You foolish, dandy! This is the Army! If I recommend you and protect you, it is like 
having "milksop" embroidered on your back in gold thread. No one will leave you alone in 
your unit, lad.' 
'What about you...' Jarre asked. 'Does your unit...' 
'Do not even think about it.' 
'Because there is only room for dwarves, it that it?' said the boy bitterly. 'Not for me?' 
'Right.' 
Not for you, thought Dennis Cranmer. Not for you, Jarre. I'm too obliged to Mother 
Nenneke. Therefore I would like you to return from the war. The Mahakam Volunteer Army is 
composed of dwarves, volunteers from inferior races and foreigners, they will always be sent 
into the worst places, the most dangerous sections of the battle. There is no return. To the 
places when humans would not be sent. 
'So what can be arranged,' Jarre frowned, 'to get into a good unit?' 
'And that, according to you is special, for you to seek?' 
Jarre turned, hearing singing, coming on like a wave in the surf, rising as rapidly as an 
approaching thunder storm. The singing was loud and strong and hard as steel. He had heard 
such singing before. 
From the street leading away from the caste, in three columns, marched the condottieri 
regiment. At their head with the standard covered with horses and skulls, was a man with an 
aquiline nose and hair in a braid that fell onto his armour. 
'Adam "Adieu" Pangratt,' murmured Dennis Cranmer. 
The condottieri's singing thundered down the street. 
In counterpoint was the ringing of horseshoes on pavement, which filled the street and 
soared up to the tops of the houses and far up into the blue sky over the city. 
 
We do not mourn wives or lovers 
When bleeding on the earth 
Because the coin, shines like the sun 
For this we fight... 
 
'Which unit?' Jarre said, unable to look away from the cavalry. 'Hopefully one like this! 
In one that would be worthwhile...' 
'Each one has its own anthem,' the dwarf broke the silence. 'But ever soldier must pour 
out his own blood. Either someone will cry for him or not. In war, son, those who sing and 
march are equal, the formations are equal. And then, in battle, everyone must face there own 
destiny. Whether in the Free Company with "Adieu" Pangratt or in the infantry or in the 
camps... In shiny armour with a proud plume or in a lousy fur coat. With a lush stallion or 
with a battered shield... each must face his destiny. Well, here we are at the Commission 

office, can you see the sign above the entrance? Make your way over there if you are still 
thinking of being a soldier. Good luck, Jarre. I'll see you when this is over.' 
The dwarf's eyes followed the boy until he disappeared through the door to the inn, 
occupied by the recruitment box. 
'Or maybe I will not see you,' he added quietly. 'Who knows what is written. What is 
chosen.' 
 
*** 
 
'Can you ride? Shoot a bow or crossbow?' 
'No, Commissioner. But I can control font and calligraphy. I know ancient runes... I 
know Elder Tongue...' 
'Are you skilled with the sword? Using a spear?' 
'I've read the history of wars. Writings by Marshal Pelligram. And Roderick de 
Novembre...' 
'Can you at least cook?' 
'Not well... But I can count...' 
The recruiter rolled his eyes and waved his hand. 
'More intellects. How many more will we get? Write him some papers for the PFI. You 
will serve in the PFI, young man. Take the papers to the south end of town, to the Maribor 
gate, next to the lake.' 
'But...' 
'You should have no problems with it. Next!' 
 
*** 
 
'Hey, Jarre! Wait!' 
'Melfi?' 
'It sure is,' said the journeyman cooper, staggering and leaning against a wall. 'Brrr, I'm 
sick...' 
'What is it?' 
'What do I know? Heh, heh! Nothing! We celebrated a bit. We drank to the defeat of the 
Nilfgaardians. Oh, Jarre, I'm glad to see you. I thought we had lost you somewhere... My 
friend...' 
Jarre stepped back like someone had slapped him. The cooper not only reeked of dirty 
beer and brandy, but also onions, garlic and the devil knew what else. It was unbearable. 
'Where did they go,' he asked mockingly, 'your great comrades?' 
'Let the devil take them,' Melfi grinned. 'You know why I came, Jarre? Because that Pike 
was not a good person.' 
'Bravo. Good for you.' 
 'So you see,' Melfi continued, not noticing Jarre's taunt. 'I was not easy to fool. Do you 
know why he came to Vizima? Do you think he wanted to join the army? You'd be wrong! 
You would not believe what he is up to.' 
'I'd believe it.' 
'He needed horses and uniforms,' Melfi concluded triumphantly. 'He wanted to steal 
them here, because he had an idea of going on bandit raids dressed as a soldier.' 
'He'll end up on the gallows.' 
'I should say so,' said the Cooper, leaning against the wall, unbuttoning his pants. 'I'm 
sorry for Ograbek and Milton, the stupid straw heads let themselves be deceived by Pike and 
they'll end up on the gallows as well. Do you know about yours, Jarre?' 

'Huh?' 
'Where are you assigned?' Melfi asked while urinating on the whitewashed wall. 'I've 
been sent to the Maribor gate. On the south side of town. Where are you going to?' 
'Also, there.' 
'Ha!' the Cooper jumped a few times then buttoned his pants. 'We will fight together?' 
'I think not,' Jarre said with an air of superiority. 'I have been assigned to the unit 
according to my qualifications. The FPI.' 
'Of course,' Melfi hiccupped and burped his hideous drunken breath again. 'You're a 
scholar! You would certainly have an important position. But what can you do? Meanwhile 
we can continue to walk for a time together. After all, we have to go the same way to the 
south side of the city.' 
'It seems so.' 
'Shall we?' 
'Let's go.' 
 
*** 
 
'I don't think this is it,' said Jarre, looking at the tents surrounding a courtyard, where the 
dust stirred around the feet of a company practicing maneuvers with long sticks on their 
shoulders. Each person, the young man realised, had a bundle of hay bound to their right leg 
and a bundle of straw on their left. 
'I think we took a wrong turn, Melfi.' 
'Straw! Hay!' they could hear the roars from the courtyard from a sergeant who was 
addressing the ragged mob. 'Straw! Hay! Pick up the pace, or I'll whore your mother!' 
'There is a flag over the tent,' Melfi said. 'See for yourself, Jarre. These are the same 
lilies you told us about on the road. There is a flag? Yes. There is a camp? Yes. This indicates 
we are in the right place.' 
'Maybe for you. But certainly not for me.' 
'Look, there is someone over by the fence. Let's go ask them.' 
Then everything started to happen quickly. 
'New recruits?' yelled the sergeant. 'Give me your papers! Why the hell are you standing 
there next to each other! March! Left I said, not right! Trot, trot! Halt, fuck and about-face! 
Listen and remember! Go to the Master of Supplies! Collect your weapons! Chain shirt, 
tabard, pike, helmet and dagger! Then back here for drills! Be ready at sunset! Break ranks! 
Go!' 
'Wait,' Jarre said looking insecure, 'Because I think I have another assignment...' 
'WHAT?' 
'Excuse me, Officer,' Jarre blushed. 'I just want to prevent any mistake... The 
Commissioner clearly... Explicitly talked about an allocation to the PFI, so I...' 
'You're home, boy' snorted the sergeant, disarmed a bit by being called "officer". 'This is 
your assignment. Welcome to the Poor Fucking Infantry.' 
 
*** 
 
'Why,' wondered Rocco Hildebrandt, 'do we still have to pay you, gentlemen soldiers? 
We have already paid all the taxes on time.' 
'Do you hear this shrimp,' Pike said grinning to his cronies on stolen horses. 'He said he 
already paid. And they think that that was everything. It's like the turkey who was pondering 
Sunday. But had his head cut off on Saturday!' 

Okultich, Klaproth, Milton and Ograbek broke out in laughter. The joke was after all a 
front. And the fun was about to start. 
Rocco saw the disgusting, sticky eyes of the ravagers and looked around. On the 
threshold of the cottage was Incarvilia Hildebrandt, his wife and his two daughters, Aloe and 
Yasmin. 
Pike and his company looked at the halfling women, smiling lasciviously. Yes, without a 
doubt, this promised to be great fun. 
From out of a hedge on the other side of the road approached Hildebrandt's niece, 
Impatientia Vanderbeck, affectionately known as Impi. She was a truly beautiful girl. The 
bandit's smiles became even more disgusting. 
'Come,' Pike urged the halfling. 'Bring out food for us and the horses and take it to the 
barn. We do not want to be stuck here after dark. We want to visit the neighbouring villages 
today.' 
'Why do we have to pay and give you what is ours?' Rocco Hildebrandt's voice trembled 
slightly, but still remained stubborn and tenacious. 'You say it is for the army, for our 
defence. And who will protect us from hunger? We have already paid for the winter quarters 
and the contribution to the army, and the tax for each person and assessment for our lands, 
and rates and a tax on wagons and signposts and the devil knows what else! And as if this 
was not enough, four from our settlement, among them my own son, have been enlisted into 
the army. A relative of mine, Milo Vanderbeck, known as Rusty, is a field surgeon in the 
army and an important person. We have fulfilled their obligations. What are we to pay again? 
And why?' 
Pike continually watched the wife of the halfling, Incarvilia Hildebrandt of Biberveldt. 
And the plump daughters, Aloe and Yasmin. Also the cute Impi Vanderbeck, who looked like 
a doll in a green dress. At Sam Hofmeier and his grandfather, and old man Holofernes. The 
grandmother Petunia, pecking viciously at her garden bed with a hoe. At the other halflings in 
the village, mainly women and youths, looking anxiously from behind houses and fences. 
'You ask why?' Pike hissed, leading forward in his saddle, looking into the eyes of the 
frightened halfling. 'I'll tell you why. Because you are mangy halfling, a runt, a stranger. You 
are inhuman and it is the will of the gods that you are beaten and killed. Because I cannot 
wait to see this rat hole burn and see you and your bitch scurry about. Because we are five 
humans and you are a handful of cowards. Now do you know why?' 
'Now I know,' Rocco Hildebrandt said slowly. 'Get away from here, big people. Go far 
away. We will not give you anything.' 
Pike sat up and reached for the sword hanging on his saddle. 
'Strike!' he shouted. 'Kill them.' 
With a movement, faster than the eye could follow, Rocco Hildebrandt bent down to his 
wheelbarrow, took out a crossbow hidden under some mats and shot his attacker with a bolt 
right into his open mouth. Incarvilia Hildebrandt, born a Biberveldt, whipped her hands 
through the air and threw a sickle which neatly cut through Milton's larynx. The country boy 
a son of a servant began to vomit blood and flipped over the back of his horse, legs waving. 
Ograbek, emitting a scream, and fell face down under the hooves of his horse, in his belly up 
to the wooden handle was stuck grandfather Holofernes knife. The burly Klaproth started to 
club the old man, but flew out of his saddle, squealing terribly, hit straight in the eye with a 
skewer flung by Impiana Vanderbeck. Okultich wheeled his horse and tried to flee, but 
grandmother Petunia jumped up and sliced her hoe into his thigh. Okultich roared and fell, 
his foot still stuck in the stirrup, his frightened horse dragged him through hedges and over 
sharp sticks. The dragged robber roared and howled and after him raced grandmother Petunia 
with her hoe and Impiana with a crooked knife for grafting trees. Old man Holofernes blew 
his nose loudly through his fingers. 

The whole episode – from Pike screaming to grandfather Holofernes blowing his nose – 
took about as long as it would take to say – "Halflings are extremely fast and agile and can 
flawless hurl missiles of all kinds." 
Rocco sat on the steps of the cottage. Beside him sat his wife Incarvilia. Their daughters 
went to help Sam Hofmeier strip the slain and wounded. 
Impiana came back with her green dress pulled back to the elbows. Grandmother Petunia 
also came back, she walked slowly, panting and groaning and leaning on her hoe. 
Oh, our grandmother is getting older and aging, Rocco thought. 
'Where should we bury the robbers, Mister Rocco?' asked Sam Hofmeier. 
Rocco Hildebrandt took his wife in his arms and looked at the sky. 
'In the birch grove,' he said,' along with the ones who have come before them.' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The sensational adventures of Mister Malcolm Guthrie of Braemore have achieved great 
notoriety in the pages of the largest newspapers, even the London "Daily Mail" has dedicate 
a few lines in the "Bizarre" section. Since we know that only a small number of our 
subscribers read press releases issued south of Tweed, we will recall the said event. On 
March 10th this year Mister Malcolm Guthrie went with a fishing rod to Loch Glascarnoch. 
There Mister Guthrie saw out of the mist and nothingness (sic) from the lake appeared a girl 
with a scar on her face (sic), riding a black mare (sic), accompanied by a white unicorn (sic). 
The girl approached the stunned Mister Guthrie and spoke to him in a language that Mister 
Guthrie described as, and I quote "French, I think, or a dialect of another continent." 
However, as Mister Guthrie does not speak French or any other dialect from anther 
continent, he could not talk to the girl. The girl and the unicorn disappeared, to quote Mister 
Guthrie again "Like a golden dream." 
Editor Review: The dream of Mister Guthrie was a golden colour like the colour of single 
malt whiskey, which we learned from a reliable source that he used to drink regularly and 
which fully explains the visions of white unicorns, white mice and monsters from Scottish 
lakes. But the main question we want to ask Mister Guthrie is - What were you doing with a 
fishing rod on the shores of Lock Glascarnoch four days after the ban on fishing? 
 
Inverness Weekly, March 18, 1906 


Chapter Seven 
The wind picked up, clouds rushed from the west and gradually enveloped the 
constellations. The Dragon vanished, the Lady Winter and then the Seven Goats. Finally the 
Eye disappeared, the constellation that shone the brightest. 
The dome of the sky gleamed along the horizon briefly with lightning. It was joined by a 
dull thunder clap. The storm grew more violent, throwing dust and dry leaves into her eyes. 
The unicorn whinnied and sent another mental signal. 
We must not waste time. Our only hope is a quick getaway. At the right place and the 
right time. Hurry Star Eyes. 
 I am the Lady of the Worlds. I am of the Elder Blood. I am from the blood of Lara 
Dorren, the daughter of Shiadhal. 
Ihuarraquax whinnied again, urging her to hurry. Kelpie whinnied as well. Ciri pulled on 
a pair of gloves. 
'I'm ready,' she said. 
A buzz sounded in her ears. A glow. And then darkness. 
 
*** 
 
The curses of the Fisher King, while he pulled and twisted on a rope on his boat trying to 
free it from the tangled web at the bottom of the lake, broke the silence of the afternoon. The 
oars, which were loose, rattled softly. Nimue coughed impatiently and Condwiramurs turned, 
leaving the window and leaned back over the prints. There was one print that drew the eye 
more than the other. A girl with ruffled hair, sitting on a prancing horse. Next to her was a 
white unicorn. 
'Perhaps for this part of the legend,' mused the adept, 'the historians had no objection and 
just recognised it as a fictional story or a metaphor. But the artists and painters, took a liking 
to this episode. Look, here is a picture with Ciri with a unicorn. Here is Ciri with a unicorn on 
a cliff above the sea, here on a narcotic induced landscape, and here under two moons.' 
Nimue was silent. 
'In short,' Condwiramurs threw the prints onto the table, 'Ciri and the unicorn from all 
sides. Ciri and the unicorn in the labyrinth of worlds, Ciri and the unicorn in the abyss of 
time...' 
'Ciri and the unicorn,' interrupted Nimue, looking out the window at the lake, to the boat 
with the Fisher King. "Ciri and the unicorn appearing out of nothingness like ghosts and 
hanging over a lake, a lake that unites time and places like a bridge, all the time different and 
yet always the same?' 
'How?' 
'Phantoms,' Nimue said not looking at her. 'Visitors from other dimensions, other levels, 
other places, other times. Visions that transform one's life. Transforms your life and your 
destiny... Without knowing. For them it is... just another place. The wrong place, wrong 
time. Who knows how many times...' 
'Nimue,' Condwiramurs interrupted her with a forced laugh. 'You recall that I'm the 
dreamer here. And you all of a sudden begin to divine. You were talking, like you saw it... in 
a dream.' 
The Fisher King, judging from the intensity of his voice and curses, failed to untangle the 
rope, and it broke. Nimue was silent, looking at the pictures. Ciri and the Unicorn. 
'It is true,' she said at last, 'I have seen this in my dreams. I have seen it in my dreams 
many times. And once while awake.' 

 
*** 
 
The journey from Czluchow to Malbork may under some circumstances take up to five 
days. And because Grand Master Winrich von Kniprode letter had to reach the addressee no 
later than the day of Pentecost, Heinrich von Schwelborn the knight was not slow and left the 
day after the Sunday of Exaudi Domine, to be able to travel safely and without any risk of 
delay. Slowly but steadily. The knight's approach was greatly enjoyed by his company, six 
crossbowmen, commanded by Hasso Planck, the son of a baker from Cologne. The 
crossbowmen and Planck were more accustomed to these knights cursing, shouting and 
ordering them to ride their horses to death to arrive on time and then casting all the blame on 
their poor servants for any delays. 
It was cold, although it was cloudy. From time to time it drizzled, and fog rippled through 
the ravines. The hills covered in dense vegetation reminded the knight Heinrich of his native 
Thuringia. The crossbowmen sang at the rear the ballad of Walther von Vogelwiede and 
Hasso Planck dozed in the saddle. 
 
If you love a good woman 
It is the cure to all iniquity... 
 
The travel proceeded peacefully and who knows, maybe the end would have been 
peaceful if not for the fact that around noon the knight Hienrich saw at the bottom of the 
road, a shimmering lake. And since the next day was Friday and custom decreed that they fast 
from red meat, the knight ordered them to enter the water and look for fish. 
The lake was large, it even had an island. No one knew what its name was, but it was 
surely called Sacred. In this pagan country every second lake was called Sacred. 
The hooves of the horses crushed shells on the shore. The fog hung over the lake and the 
wilderness. There were no signs of boats or nets, not a soul. We will have to look elsewhere, 
Heinrich von Schwelborn thought. And if not, then so be it. We will eat what we have in our 
saddlebags, even the jerky, and we'll confess to chaplain Malbork, who can grant us 
absolution for our sins. 
He was about to give the order when in his head, under his helmet, started a buzz. Hasso 
Planck released a sharp cry. Von Schwelborn looked in the same direction and crossed 
himself. 
He saw two horses – one white and the other black. In the next moment he noticed that 
the white horses head was domed with a twisted horn that rose from its forehead. He also 
realised that the black horse, actually a sable mare, had a girl sitting on it with grey hair 
which covered part of her face. The visions seemed not to touch either the land or the water, 
and he had the feeling that they were part of the mist that twisted above the surface of the 
lake. 
The black horse whinnied. 
'Ooops,' the girl with the grey hair said quite clearly. 'Ire lokke, ire tedd! Squaess'me.' 
'Saint Ursula, Patroness...' Hasso stammered, pale as death. The crossbowmen froze with 
open mouths, and made the sign of the cross in front of them. 
Von Schwelborn also crossed himself, and with a trembling hand drew his sword from its 
scabbard strapped to his saddle. 
'Holy Mary, Mother of God!' he cried. 'Stand with me!' 
Knight Heinrich did not bring shame to his ancestors that day, including Dietrich von 
Schwelborn, who valiantly fought against Damietta and was one of the few to not run away 

when the Saracens conjured and released a horse of black demons. Kicking his heels into his 
horse and remembering his ancestors, Heinrich von Schwelborn charged the apparition. 
'By the Order and Saint George!' 
The white unicorn reared back and the black mare danced. The girl, you could see at a 
glance was frightened as knight Heinrich rushed to the attack. God knows how it would have 
ended, all of a sudden a gust of wind brought a scrap of mist from the lake, and the vision 
vanished in a rainbow of colours like crushed stones or broken stained glass. The phantoms 
disappeared – the unicorn, the mare and the strange girl... 
The sorrel on which Heinrich von Schwelborn was mounted entered the lake with a 
splash, stopped and shook its head and snorted, chewing at the bit. 
Hasso Planck mastered the reluctant horse and headed for the knight. Von Schwelborn 
was breathing and wheezing, his eyes bulging like a fishes. 
'The bones of Saint Ursula, Saint Korduli and all the eleven thousand virgin martyrs...' 
Hasso Planck managed. 'What was it? Knight Heinrich? A miracle? A revelation?' 
'The devil's work!' von Schwelborn gasped, now only pale and trembling. 'Black magic! 
Witchcraft! A damned thing, pagan and demonic.' 
'We'd better get out of her, Sir. The sooner... We are not far from Pelpin, let the church 
bells guide us...' 
In the same forest, on a hill, the knight Heinrich looked down one last time. The wind 
drove the fog back in places and the wrinkled surface of the lake became visible. 
Over the water circled a great eagle. 
'Wicked, pagan country,' Heinrich von Schwelborn muttered. 'Lot and lots of hard work 
await us; the law of the Teutonic Knights will finally drive the devil from here.' 
 
*** 
 
'Horsey,' Ciri said reproachfully, and ironically at the same time. 'I would not want to 
rush you, but I'm in a bit of a hurry to get to my world. My loved ones need me, you know. 
Instead we almost fall into a lake and see a man in funny clothes, then we see a band of dirty 
screamers with clubs and finally a madman with a cross! These are not my world or my time! 
Please try to get better. Please.' 
Ihuarraquax whinnied and nodded his horn and sent Ciri a mental idea. Ciri 
misunderstood. She had no time to thin since the inside of her skull was again flooded by a 
cold clarity, her ears buzzed and her body tingled. 
And again the darkness engulfed her. 
 
*** 
 
Nimue, laughing with delight, pulled the man's hand, they both ran to the lake, dodging 
among the birches and alders. On the sandy shore, Nimue kicked off her sandals, lifted her 
dress and ran barefoot into the water. The man pulled off his shoes, but did not go into the 
water. He took off his cloak and carefully spread it on the ground. 
Nimue ran to him and hugged him around the neck. She stood on tiptoe, and even so the 
man had to bend deeply to kiss her. They did not call her Thumbelina for nothing, but now 
since she was eighteen and was accomplished in the magical arts, she only permitted her 
closes friends to call her that. And some men. 
The man, not taking his lips from Nimue's, slid his hand behind her neck. 
Then it went quickly. They were both on the sand on his cloak. Nimue's skirt was hiked 
up over her waist, her legs wrapped around the man's hips and her nails dug into his 
shoulders and back. When he took her, as usual, he was too impatient, she gritted her teeth, 

but quickly caught up in the excitement of it. The man emitted ridiculous sounds. Over his 
shoulder Nimue watched slowly flying clouds of fantastic shapes. 
Something dimly rang like a bell under water. Nimue heard a murmur in her ears. Magic, 
she thought, and turned her head away from the face of the man. Standing by the shore – 
hanging above the surface, was a white unicorn. At his side was a black mare. In the saddle 
on the horse sat a girl... 
But I know this legend, the thought flashed through Nimue's head. I know this story! 
When I was a child I heard this tale, from the old wandering storyteller... The Witcheress 
Ciri... The scar on her cheek... The black mare, Kelpie... The unicorn... The Land of the 
Elves... 
The movement of the man, who was oblivious to the events going on, became more 
violent, and he issued funnier sounds. 
'Ooops,' said the girl sitting on the black mare. 'Another mistake! Not here, not at this 
time. To make matters worse, I think we arrived at the completely wrong time. Sorry.' 
The image faded and burst, exploding like painted glass, into a riot of rainbow 
luminescence, radiance and brightness, then everything disappeared. 
'No!' Nimue cried. 'No! Don't disappear! Don't run!' 
She straightened her knees and tried to break free of the man, but could not – he was 
more powerful than her and heavier. The man groaned and grunted. 
'Ooooh, Nime...Oooh!' 
Nimue screamed and sunk her teeth into his shoulder. 
They lay side by side on the crumpled cloak, sweaty and anxious. Nimue looked back at 
the lakeshore. The waves gave off an off-white foam. The reeds bent in the wind. The 
colourless, bleak emptiness that remained after the lost legend. 
Tears flowed down Nimue's face. 
'Nimue... Is something worng?' 
'Yes, there was...' She clung to him, but still looked at the lake. 'Don't talk. Hold me and 
say nothing.' 
The man smiled. 
'I know what happened,' he said boastfully. 'The earth moved, right?' 
Nimue smiled sadly. 
'Not only the earth,' she said after a moment. 'Not only the earth.' 
 
*** 
 
A flash. Darkness. The next place. 
 
*** 
 
The place was gloomy, sinister and repulsive. 
Ciri involuntarily hunched in her saddle. She was shaken, both physically and mentally. 
Kelpie's horseshoes rang on something flat and smooth, durable and as hard as rock. After a 
long time gliding in oblivion where everything was soft, the mare whinnied and began to pull 
violently to one side; smashing her hooves into the hard rock with such a staccato that Ciri's 
teeth rang. 
The second shook was from a smell. Ciri gasped ad covered her mouth and nose with her 
sleeve. She could feel her eyes immediately fill with tears. 
Around her floated an acid, corrosive, dense stench, it was choking and disgusting and 
she could not remember ever smelling anything like it. What it was – was the stench of 
decay, cadaverous, the final stench in the chain of degradation and degeneration, the smell of 

ruin and destruction, and she felt that whatever was rotting had smelt no better when it had 
been alive. Even at its heyday. 
She bent over with her gag reflex, which she could no longer suppress. Kelpie snorted 
and tossed her head. The unicorn, who appeared beside them, sat on his haunches, jumped 
and kicked. The impact with the hard surface was answered with a loud echo. 
Around them, the night was dark and wrapped them in a choking haze. Ciri looked up to 
get their bearings by the stars, but above her head was nothing but a black vault, just above 
the horizon was illuminated by the red glare of distant fires. 
'Ooops,' she said, when she grinned she felt a sticky, acidic moisture on her lips 'Brrrr. 
Wrong place, wrong time. In the literal sense!' 
The unicorn snorted and shook his head, his horn moved in a short arc. 
The floor grating under Kelpie's hooves was rock, but a strange, and unnaturally even 
which gave off an intense smell of burning ash and dirt. It took a while before Ciri realised 
the maybe it was a road. She was getting the most agonizing shock with each step, therefore 
she turned Kelpie towards the verge lined with something that was perhaps once trees, but 
now only looked like mutilated skeletons, from which hung tattered shreds which reminded 
her of the remanets of rotten shrouds. 
The unicorn warned her with a whinny and a mental signal. But it was too late. 
The dead trees began to slope down and ended at a deep escarpment. Ciri screamed and 
kicked her heels into the mare's sides. Kelpie strained muscles were bunching up and her 
hooves were crushing what was covering – or basically consisted of the slope – garbage, 
mostly some weird empty containers. These containers did not crumple under the horseshoes, 
but broke as if disgustingly soft, like big fish bladders. Each of them gurgled softly and 
emitted a smell that nearly knocked Ciri out of the saddle. Kelpie, neighing furiously, 
stomped up the dump towards the road. Ciri, choking from the stench, clung to the mare's 
neck. 
The made it. The hardness of the unpleasant road was greeted with an odd mixture of joy 
and relief. 
Ciri was still shaking as she looked down the hill. The escarpment ended at a black lake at 
the bottom. Its surface was glossy and motionless, as if there was no water, but was filled 
with pitch. Behind the lake, past mounds of ash and slag heaps the sky glowed with distant 
fires. 
Above the horizon ruddy columns of smoke were rising. 
The unicorn snorted. Ciri wanted to rub her watery eyes on her sleeve, but found that the 
entire sleeve was covered with dust. A layer of dust also covered her thighs, saddle and 
Kelpie's neck and mane. The smell was unbearable. 
'How disgusting,' she muttered. 'Revolting... Let's leave. Let's leave quickly, Horsey.' 
The unicorn pricked up his ears. 
Only you can make that happen. Do it. 
'Me? Alone? Without your help?' 
The unicorn nodded his horn. Ciri scratched her head, sighed and closed her eyes. She 
concentrated. 
First, she felt only suspicion, uncertainty and fear. But soon her mind was awash in a cold 
light – the light of knowledge and power. She had no idea where this source of knowledge 
and the wellspring of power had come from, but she knew she could. She could if she wanted 
to. 
Once again she looked at the motionless dead lake, the steaming heap of waste and the 
skeleton of trees. In the distance the sky was illuminated by the glow of fires. 
'Fine,' she said. 'This is not my world.' 
The unicorn whinnied eloquently. She understood what he wanted to say. 

'And if it's is mine,' she wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief, 'then I hope that it 
is infinitely far away in time. Either it's the distant past, or...' 
She stopped. 
'The past,' she said dully after a moment. 'I believe this is the past.' 
 
*** 
 
The heavy rain which greeted them at their next jump was a welcome blessing. The 
downpour smelled of mud, grass and summer and quickly washed away the dirt and dust 
from the dead world. 
After sometime, however, the long cleansing became unbearable. Water spilled down 
Ciri's collar, it soaked her to the skin and started to make her uncomfortably cold. Therefore 
she quickly jumped from the wet place. 
Because it was also not the right place or time. 
 
*** 
 
The next place was very warm, an intense heat prevailed there, so Ciri, Kelpie and the 
unicorn dried very quickly and the water vanished off of them like vapour from a teapot. 
They were in a heath ravaged by the sun on the edge of a forest. The could immediately see it 
was a great forest, a dense forest, wild and incredibly thick. 
In the throbbing heat, Ciri hoped this might be the forest of Brokilon and finally a known 
location. 
They rode slowly around the edge of the forest. Ciri looked for anything that could 
determine where they were. The unicorn snorted, lifted his horned lead and looked around, 
sniffing. He was restless. 
'Do you think, Horsey,' she said, 'that they can chase us?' 
His snort was clear and unambiguous, even without the telepathy. 
'Have we not managed to escape far enough yet?' 
The thought that he sent her she didn't understand. Not far away and not close? What 
does that mean? The Spiral? What spiral? 
She did not understand what he meant. But she understood his anxiety. 
The hot heath was not the right place and not the right time. 
They realised that night, when the heat had yielded and in the sky over the forest 
appeared not one moon, but two. One large and one small. 
 
*** 
 
The next place was at the edge of a sea, on a very steep cliff from which doves were 
spread out on strangely shaped rocks. The wind smelled of the ocean, shrieking terns, gulls 
and petrels and white layer covered the rocky terraces. The sea reached to the horizon, 
framed by dark clouds. 
Down on a stony beach, Ciri could suddenly distinguish the skeleton of a giant monstrous 
fish head partly buried in the gravel. The teeth that protruded from the white jaw were over 
three feet in length and the jaw itself gave the sense that one could going riding through the 
portal of the ribs without ever touching the head or spine. 
Ciri was not sure if this was her world or her time as there were fish like that there as 
well. 
They walked along the edge of the cliff. Seagulls and albatrosses did not seem frightened 
at all, they did not move out of the way, they even pecked and slashed their beaks at Kelpie 

and Ihuarraquax. Ciri knew that these birds had never seen a horse or unicorn. Or humans 
either. 
Ihuarraquax snorted, shook his head and horn and was visibly uneasy. 
He turned out to be correct. Something snapped, like the sound of torn fabric. The gulls 
rose with a shriek and a flutter, covering everything instantly in a cloud of white feathers. The 
air over the cliff suddenly trembled and became cloudy and broke like glass. 
From the crack and darkness emerged riders. Behind them blew coats, whose colour 
resembled the reflection in the sky from the setting sun. 
Dearg Ruadhri. The Red Riders. 
Even before the screaming birds and the warning neigh, Ciri, Kelpie and the unicorn 
turned to flee. But the air had already cracked on the other side of them and from the crack 
spilled riders. The pursuers formed a semicircle around them and closed, pushing Ciri closed 
to the abyss. She screamed and pulled her sword from its sheath. 
The unicorn sent her a strong signal that pierced her brain like a needle. Ciri understood 
immediately. He showed her the way. There was a hole in the skirmish line. The unicorn 
whinnied menacingly and threw himself against the elves. 
'Horsey!' 
Save yourself, Star Eyes! Do not allow yourself to be caught. 
She clung to Kelpie's mane. 
Two elves cut across her path. They held long poles with rope loops at the end. They tried 
to throw them around Kelpie's neck. The first loop, the mare gracefully ducked her head 
under, without slowing in the least. The second loop was severed by a swing from Ciri's 
sword. The mare swept between the elves like a storm. 
But other pursuers were already on her heels, Ciri hear their cries and the clatter of 
hooves. What happened to Horsey? What did he do? 
She had no time for reflection. The unicorn was right, she could not allow herself to be 
caught. She had to escape into space, hide and lose them in the maze of places and times. 
When she tried to concentrate, she felt panic, because in her head she suddenly found a 
strange emptiness and rapidly growing confusion. 
They are casting a spell on me, she thought. They want to deceive me with spells. But 
even spells have a limited range. I cannot let them get to me. 
'Run, Kelpie!' 
The black mare stretched her neck and flew like the wind. Ciri stuck to her neck to 
provide the minimum of wind resistance. 
The shouts behind the, which only a moment before had been loud and dangerously close, 
faded and were drowned out by the cries of frightened birds. Then complete silence. 
Kelpie ran like a storm. The sea wind howled through their ears. 
In the distant cries of their pursuers came a note of anger. They had realised that they 
were not going to catch her. They were never going to reach the black mare galloping without 
any signs of tiredness, light, soft and elastic like a cheetah. 
Ciri did not look back. She knew that her pursuers would still be following. They would 
follow until their own horses began to snort, wheeze and stumble almost to the ground, with 
their mouths open and full of foam. Only then would they stop following her and shout curses 
and impotent threats. 
Kelpie ran like the wind. 
 
*** 
 

The place to where she escaped was dry and windy. The prickly wind quickly dried the 
tears on her face. She was alone. Alone again. A tramp, and eternal pilgrim, a swimmer 
wandering the endless oceans between the islands, of places and time. 
A swimmer losing hope. 
The wind whistles and moaned and rushed over the cracked earth and clumps of weeks. 
The wind dried her tears. 
 
*** 
 
Inside her head a cool brightness murmured in her ears, the constant murmur of the heart 
of a sea shell. There was a burning sensation in her throat. Black soft nothingness. 
A new place and time, another place and time. The islands of places and times. 
 
*** 
 
'Tonight,' Nimue said, wrapping herself in fur, 'will be a good night. I can feel it.' 
Condwiramurs said nothing, although she had heard similar assurances several times. It 
was not the first night that they had sat on the balcony in front of them the shining lake and 
the setting sun, behind them the magic mirror and the magical tapestry. 
From the lake echo the curses from the fisher King, who did not hesitate in voicing his 
distaste for fishing failures. According to his repertoire, it was possible to conclude that today 
he had been extremely successful. 
'Time,' said Nimue, 'has no beginning and no end. It is like the serpent Ouroboros, which 
holds in its teeth its own tail. Every moment hides eternity and eternity is made up of 
moments. Eternity is an archipelago of moments, which can float, but navigation is extremely 
difficult and deviation from the course is dangerous. It is good to have a beacon that can light 
the way in the darkness, to hear a cry through the fog...' 
She paused for a moment. 
'How do we end this interesting legend? It seems to us, you and me, we know how it 
ends. But Ouroboros still keeps his teeth in his own tail and how the legend ends will be 
decided in this moment. It just depends on whether the wandering swimmer sees or hears the 
beacon through the fog.' 
From the lake they could hear more swearing, splashing water and the creaking of oars. 
'Tonight will be a good night. The last before the summer solstice. The moon wanes, the 
sun enters the fourth house, enters the sign of Capricorn. The best time to dream. 
Concentrate, Condwiramurs.' 
Like so many times before, Condwiramurs obediently focused until falling into a trace-
like state. 
'Find her,' said Nimue. 'She is somewhere between the stars, somewhere in the 
moonlight, between the islands of places and times. She is alone. She needs help. Help her 
Condwiramurs.' 
 
*** 
 
Concentration, fist on her temples. In her ears the sound like from inside a conch shell. A 
flash. And suddenly soft, black nothingness. 
 
*** 
 

She was in a place where Ciri could see flaming piles. The women who were in them 
were chained to stakes, begging for mercy, but the crowd laughed, cheered and danced. She 
was in a place where a great city was burning, the flames leapt from collapsing roofs and 
black smoke covered the sky. She was in a place where giant lizards fought and the wounds 
from their terrible teeth and claws flowed with blood. She was in a place where hundreds of 
identical white windmills intersected the air with slender blades. She was in a place where the 
stones rustled and rattled with the sounds of scales and the hissing of thousands of snakes. 
She was in place where they was only darkness and in the darkness, voices whispered in fear. 
She was in a lot of other places. But none of them were right. 
 
*** 
 
She transported from place to place and it was going so well she decided to started a little 
experiment. One of the few places where she was not afraid was the heated hearth on the 
edge of the forest. She summoned a memory of the sight of the two moons and repeated this 
in her mind that this is what she wanted. Ciri concentrated, strained and plunged into 
nothingness. 
She succeed on the second try. 
The success gave her confidence and encouraged her to an even more daring attempt. It 
was clear that part from visiting different places, she could also visit different times, 
Vysogota and the elves and mentioned it and so had the unicorns. 
She did it, albeit unknowingly, earlier. When she had been wounded in the face she 
escaped her enemies by jumping to another time. She transported herself four days ahead, and 
when Vysogota calculated the days, it didn't fit... 
So maybe it was her chance? To jump through time? 
She decided to try it. The burning city for example, would not burn eternally. What if she 
got there before the fire? Or after? 
She jumped right into the center of the fire. Arousing panic among the refugees who ran 
from their houses, scorching her lashes and eyebrows. 
She escaped to the friendly heath. It is not worth risking it this way, she thought, the devil 
knows what could happen. I'll stick to the proven method of jumps between different places, 
but I'll try to get to places that I can remember. One where I was safe. 
She started with the temple of Melitele, imagining the gate, the building, the parks and 
workshops, the dormitories of the adepts, the room in which she lived with Yennefer. 
She focused on the temple recalled the faces of Nenneke, Eurneid, Katye and Iola the 
Second. 
It did not work. She jumped into a swamp full of mosquitoes where the whistle of turtles 
resounded and frogs croaked. 
After she tried – without success – Kaer Morhen, the Skellige islands and the bank in 
Gors Velen where Fabio Sachs worked. She did not dare try and enter Cintra, she knew the 
city was occupied by the Nilfgaardians. Instead she attempted Vizima, the city where she and 
Yennefer went shopping once. 
 
*** 
 
Aarhenius Krantz, a sage, alchemist, astronomer and astrologer, squirmed on his hard 
stood with his eye pressed against the eyepiece of a telescope. The first magnitude comet, 
which would only be in the sky for a week, was necessary to study and describe. The learned 
astrologer knew that such a comet with a fiery red tail predicted great misfortune, war and 
bloodshed. In truth, this time the comet was a little late, because the war with Nilfgaard had 

already stretched for a long time and bloodshed could be reliably predicted without celestial 
phenomena. But Aarehnius Krantz was thoroughly familiar with the movement of the comet 
and so he was going to calculate how many years or centuries until the comet returned, 
heralding a new war, to which, who know, they will be better prepared than the current one. 
The astronomer rose, rubbed his backside and went to relieve his bladder, over the side of 
the terrace. He always pissed for the terrace directly into the bed of peonies, regardless of the 
owners reprimands. The toilet was just too far away, the time wasted in the long march there 
would make him risk losing valuable observations, an no scientist could afford that. 
He stood at the railing, undid his pants and looked at the reflection of Vizima's lights in 
the lake. He sighed in relief and raised his eyes to the stars/ 
The stars, he thought, and constellations. Lady Winter, The Seven goats, the Pitcher. 
According to some theories they are not just blinking light, but worlds. Other worlds. Worlds, 
which are separated from us by time and space... I firmly believe, that it will be possible to 
travel to these other places, to those other times and cosmos. Yes, certainly it will be possible 
one day. There is a way. But this will require whole new ideas, new and refreshing ideas that 
will burst the dogma of today... 
Ah, he thought, if only it were possible... Attaining enlightenment, finding clues! If I 
found one unique occasion... 
Below, next to the terrace, something shone, the dark night burst like a star and with a 
pop there appeared a horse, with a rider on its back. The rider was a girl. 
'Good evening,' she greeted politely. 'I apologise if it is late. Could you tell me what this 
place is? And the date?' 
Aarhenius Krantz gulped gasped and spluttered. 
'The place?' the girl repeated patiently. 'The date.' 
'Aha... This... Ahh...' 
The horse snorted. The girl sighed. 
'We are in the wrong place, I failed again. Wrong place, wrong time! But try to answer 
me man! At least one intelligible word. Because I've never found a world where people have 
forgotten how to speak!' 
'Er...' 
'Just one word.' 
'Er...' 
'Damn you, fucking idiot,' said the girl. 
And the disappeared. Along with the horse. 
Aarhenius Krantz shut his mouth. He remained standing for a moment beside the railing, 
staring into the night, into the lake which reflected Vizima's lights. The he tied up his pants 
and returned to his telescope. 
The comet crossed the sky at full speed. It needed to be constantly monitored, without 
looking away from the eyepiece. It needed to be watched until it disappeared into the depth of 
space. That was the unique opportunity that no true scholar must squander. 
 
*** 
 
I'll try another way, she thought as she watched the two moons. It was now seen as two 
narrow crescents, one bigger and one smaller. I'll try it another way, I've tried imagining a 
place or a face, Now I'll try a powerful desire. I wish strongly, from my heart... 
What's the harm in trying? 
Geralt. I want Geralt. I really want Geralt. 
 
*** 

 
'Oh no,' she cried. 'The devil take me!' 
Kelpie neighed confirmed her felt the same way. Steam exploded from his nostrils and his 
hooves sank into the snow. 
The storm howled, blinding them with sharp ice crystals that hacked at their faces. Cold 
penetrated her clothing and bit like a wolf. Ciri was shaking, stooping her shoulder and her 
neck, trying to hide herself in her raised collar. 
To the right and left loomed majestic peaks, granite monuments, whose peaks bathed in 
the blizzard. In a valley a rushing river was rushing and thick with ice. Everywhere was 
white. 
 I have these abilities, Ciri thought, such power. I'm the Lady of the Worlds but there is 
no point! I wanted Geralt and I find myself lost in the wilderness, in winter in a blizzard. 
'Come, Kelpie, move or you'll freeze!' she pulled on the reins with fingers that were 
numb with cold. 'Come on, bullhead! I know that this is the wrong place, now we'll return to 
our warm heath. But I have to concentrate and it takes some time. So, move!' 
The mare exhaled a cloud of steam. 
The wind blew; snow fell on her face and froze her eyelashes. The wind howled and 
whistled. 
 
*** 
 
'Look!' Angouleme shouted above the wind. 'Look there! There are hoof prints. 
Someone was here!' 
'What did you say?' Geralt moved the scarf which he had around his head to avoid his 
ears freezing. 'What, Angouleme?' 
'Footprints! Hoof prints!' 
'Who could bring a horse here?' Cahir also had to scream above the river Sansretour, 
which thundered and echoed. 'How can you get a horse up here?' 
'Look for yourself?' 
'Indeed,' said the vampire, the only member of the company that showed no symptoms of 
freezing, obviously had equal susceptibility to low and high temperatures. 'They're tracks. 
But are they really from a horse?' 
'Certainly not,' said Cahir running his cheeks and nose. 'Not in this wilderness. It must 
have been some wild animal. Probably an ibex.' 
'You're an ibex, you stupid goat!' shouted Angouleme. 'When I say it was a horse, it was 
a horse!' 
Milva, as usual, preferred practice to theory. She jumped from her saddle and knelt, 
throwing back her hood. 
'The brat is right, it is definitely a horse. Perhaps even shod, but it's hard to say. The wind 
has blown away a lot of traces. They went there into that ravine.' 
'Ha!' Angouleme rubbed her hands together. 'I knew it! Someone lives here! Let's follow 
their trail maybe we'll find a warm cottage. Maybe they have a fire? Perhaps they'll welcome 
us?' 
'Perhaps with an arrow from a crossbow,' Cahir added sarcastically. 
'It would be wiser to stick to the plan of following the river,' Regis decreed in his 
omniscient voice. 'We will not run the risk of getting lost. And along the shore of the 
Sansretour there are trading posts we can fall back on.' 
'What do you think, Geralt?' 
The witcher was silent, staring into the swirling snowstorm. 
'We'll follow the tracks,' he said finally. 

'I do not...' the vampire begun, but Geralt did not let him finish. 
'We'll follow the tracks! Let's go,' he ordered. 
The spurred their horses, but did not travel too far. They had gone into the ravine about a 
quarter mile. 
'They've ended,' Angouleme said, looking down at the pristine snow. 'The horse has 
disappeared like in an Elvish circus.' 
'What now, witcher?' Cahir turned in his saddle. 'The tracks have disappeared. The wind 
has covered them.' 
'No,' disagreed Milva. 'The storm isn't blowing hard enough in the ravine to hide tracks.' 
 'So what happened to the horse?' 
The archer shrugged and huddled up in her saddle. 
'Where is the horse?' Cahir did not give up. 'Did it fly away? Vanish? Or are we just 
dreaming?' 
The storm wailed over the ravine. 
'Why,' asked the vampire, staring with profound insight at the witcher. 'Why did you 
lead us after the tracks, Geralt?' 
'I don't know,' Geralt admitted reluctantly. 'Something... I felt something. Something I 
knew. It doesn't matter. You were right, Regis. Let's return to the Sansretour and stick close 
to the river. No more side trips along the way. According to what Reynart said, real winter 
and bad weather are waiting for us just beyond the pass of Malhuer. When we get there, we 
will need to be at full strength. Don't just stand there, let's go.' 
'But what happened to the horse?' 
'What's happened to him?' muttered the witcher. 'His footsteps have been covered by the 
snow. Or maybe it wasn't a horse, but an ibex.' 
Milva looked at him wryly, but refrained from making any comment. 
When they returned to the river, the mysterious tracks were gone, covered by wet snow. 
The steel-grey Sansretour river flowed thickly with ice which twirled and twisted in the 
water. 
'I will tell you something,' Angouleme said. 'But you have to promise that you are not 
going to laugh.' 
They turned to face her. Covered with a woollen cap pulled down over her ears, with 
cheeks and nose red from the cold, wearing a large coat, the girl looked funny, just like a 
pudgy little kobold. 
'It is about those tracks. When I was riding with Nightingale, in his Hanse, they said that 
in winter along the mountain passes, on an enchanted horse, rides the King of the Mountain, 
the ruler of the ice demons. To meet him face to face is certain death. What do you say, 
Geralt? Is it possible...' 
'Anything,' he interrupted her. 'Anything is possible in this company. The Malhuer pass 
is ahead of us.' 
The snow whipped and lashed, the wind blowed and among cliffs came the whistling and 
howling of ice demons. 
 
*** 
 
The heath to which she had jumped was not the familiar heath, Ciri knew immediately. 
She did not even have to wait until evening, she was confident that see would not see two 
moons. 
She rode around the edges of the forest and also noticed differences. For example, there 
were many more birches and much less beeches. She had not heard or seen any birds. There 

was among the clumps of heather only dry sand, there used to be a green carpet. Even the 
grasshoppers here were different, frightened by Kelpie's steps. So familiar. And yet... 
Her heart beat faster. She saw a path, overgrown and neglected. Leading into the forest. 
Ciri thoroughly explored the surrounding area and made sure that the path did not end. 
That it did not lead to the woods, but led through it. She wasted no time, kicking her heels 
into her mare and rode into the trees. I'll ride for half a day, she thought, if I don't find 
anything I'll turn around and go the opposite direction, into the heath. 
She walked under the canopy of the trees, looking carefully around her, trying not to miss 
anything important. Thanks to this approach she did not miss the little old man who watched 
her from behind an oak. 
The old man was small, but not hunched. He was wearing a linen shirt and trousers of the 
same material. On his feet he wore enormous, ridiculously looking sandals. In one hand he 
carried a gnarled cane and in the other a wicker basket. Ciri could not clearly see his face as it 
was concealed by a straw hat, from which protruded a sunburned nose and a mattered grey 
beard. 
'Don't be afraid,' she said. 'I won't harm you.' 
Greybeard shifted from behind the oak and took off his hat. His face was round and 
dotted with age spots but vigorous with a little wrinkled brow and a small chin. He had long 
grey hair at the nape of his neck which he had pulled back into a ponytail, but the crown of 
his head was bare, shiny and yellow like a pumpkin. 
She noticed that he was looking at her sword, the hilt of which was protruding over her 
right shoulder. 
'Don't be afraid,' she repeated. 
'Hey, hey!' he said, mumbling a bit. 'Hey, hey, my lady. Gramps is not afraid. Not afraid, 
on no.' 
He smiled. His teeth were big and due to his receding lower jaw, his upper teeth stuck out 
of his mouth. There for his speech was hard to understand. 
'Gramps is not afraid of strangers,' he said. 'Even bandits. Gramps is poor and pitiful. 
Gramps is peaceful, no threat to anyone. Hey!' 
He smiled again. His smile seemed to be comprised of only his front teeth. 
'And you my lady, are you afraid of Gramps?' 
Ciri snorted. 
'I'm not afraid of you.' 
'Hey, hey, hey! Whatever you say!' 
He stepped towards her, leaning on his cane. Kelpie snorted. Ciri pulled on the reins. 
'She does not like strangers,' Ciri warned. 'And she bites.' 
'Hey, hey. Gramps understands. Bad, rude pony! And out of curiosity, where is the lady 
going? Where is she heading?' 
'It's a long story. Where does this path lead?' 
'Hey, Hey! The young lady does not know this?' 
'Do not answer questions with questions, if you please. Where does the path lead> What 
is this place? And what is the date?' 
The old man grinned again, his teeth sticking out like a beavers. 
'Hey, hey, I can see from these questions that my lady has come from far away.' 
'Quite far,' she said indifferently. 'From another...' 
'Time and place,' he finished. 'Gramps knows. Gramps guessed.' 
'How have you guessed? What do you know?' she asked excitedly. 
'Gramps knows much.' 
'Speak!' 

'Is my lady hungry? She said. 'Thirsty? Tired? Gramps will take you to his cottage, give 
you food and drink and let you rest.' 
Ciri had not had time to think about food and rest. Now, the words of the strange old man, 
made her stomach rumble and her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. The old man looked 
at her from under the brim of his straw hat. 
'Gramps,' he said, 'has food and spring water at his house. And hey for your mare, the 
mare that wants to bite Gramps. Hey, hey, at the house we can talk about places and times... 
It's not far. Will my lady accept the invitation? Will she enjoy Gramps refreshments?' 
Ciri swallowed. 
'Lead on,' 
Gramps turned and walked along the barely visible path, measuring the way with long 
strokes from his cane. Ciri followed him, bowing her head to keep the branches from pulling 
her from the saddle and keeping a firm hand on the reins to stop Kelpie from biting the old 
man or eating his straw hat. 
Despite his claims the cottage was not close at all. When they finally reached his place 
the sun was almost at it zenith. 
Gramps's cottage proved to be a picturesque made of wood, with a roof which had been 
evidently repaired often using the first thing that had come to hand. The walls of the hut were 
covered with what looked like pig skins. In front of the cottage was a wooden structure in the 
shape of a gallows, a low table and a stump with an axe sticking out of it. In the cottage was 
an enclosed fireplace made of stone and clay, on which stood a smoking pot and pan. 
'Gramps's home,' said the old man proudly, 'this is where I live. Here is where I sleep 
and cook food. Come have something to eat. Hey, hey, it is difficult to capture food in the 
forest. Does my lady like the flavour of millet porridge?' 
'I like it,' Ciri swallowed again. 'I like it.' 
'With pork? With butter? And bacon?' 
'Mmmm.' 
'It is clear,' the old man gave her a probing look, 'that you have not recently filled a plate 
full of pork and bacon. My lady is skinny. Skin and bones. Hey, hey. What is that back 
there?' 
Ciri looked back. She fell for the old and most primitive trick in the world. 
The heavy blow from the cane hit her directly in the head, her reflexes were just enough 
to raise her hand and cushion some of the blow which could have broken her skull like an 
egg. But Ciri found herself bewildered, stunned and complete disoriented. 
Gramps showed his huge teeth then leapt at her and hit her again with his gnarled stick. 
Ciri once again managed to protect her head with her upraised hands, but the result was her 
left hand falling limp, probably broken. Gramps jumped to her other side and swung, hitting 
her in the stomach. She screamed and curled into a ball. He threw himself on her like a hawk; 
he turned her face to the ground and crushed her knees. Ciri arched up and kicked back, 
hitting him a sharp blow to his elbow. Gramps roared furiously and slammed his fist onto the 
back of her head with such force that her face dug into the sand. He grabbed her by the hair 
on her neck and ground her nose and mouth into the sand. She felt suffocated. 
The old man knelt on her, still pushing her head into the ground, pulled out her sword and 
tossed it to the side. He fumbling hand reach over her stomach and unlaced her pants. Ciri 
screamed and her mouth filled with more sand. The old man pushed harder, clutching her hair 
in his fist. With a strong tug her pulled down her pants. 
'Hey, hey,' the old man wheezed. 'Today Gramps caught a nice ass. It has been a long 
time.' 
Ciri felt the touch of his dry hand and cried out again through her mouth full of sand and 
pine needles. 

'Just be quiet and lay still, my lady,' he drooled onto her buttocks. 'Gramps is no longer 
young, like he used to be... But no fear, the old man still knows what to do. Hey, hey, and 
then Gramps will eat you...' 
He did not finish the sentence, he grunted and roared. 
Ciri felt his grip break, and broke away from him like a spring. Now she could see what 
had happened. 
Kelpie had silently crept up from behind, grabbed Gramps in her teeth and literally lifted 
him off the ground. The old man yelled and thrashed about, kicking. Finally he managed to 
break free, but left a lot of his grey hair in the mare's teeth. He leaped for his gnarled stick 
but at the last moment Ciri kicked it out of his reach. The second kick she wanted to deal out 
was to where it was necessary, but her pants pulled down to her knees restricted her 
movements. She pulled them up and turned, but Gramps had utilised the lost time well. With 
several jumps he reached the stump and wrested the axe from it. He waved the axe, driving 
Kelpie back, then with a roar, he lunged at Ciri, raising the axe to strike. 
'Gramps is gonna bugger you wench!' he howled wildly. 'Even if he has to hack you to 
pieces first. Gramps doesn't care if my lady is whole or filleted!' 
Ciri thought that she could handle his easily. He was after all, a decrepit old man. She was 
mistaken. 
Despite his age and large sandals, he was as agile as a rabbit and leaped at her, 
brandishing the axe with the skill of a butcher. When the sharpened blade almost hit her a few 
times, Ciri realised that the only way to save herself was to escape. 
But she was save by coincidence. Stepping backwards she ran into her sword. She quickly 
picked it up. 
'Throw down the axe,' she yelled, pulling her sword with a hiss from its scabbard. 
'Throw down your axe, you old shit, maybe I'll give you your life.' 
He paused. Wheezing and puffing, he had saliva running from his mouth into his beard. 
But he did not throw down the axe. She saw in his eyes a murderous rage. 
'No!' 
'Then come at me.' 
For a moment he looked at her as if not understanding, then he gnashed his teeth, roared 
and lunged at her. Ciri had had enough. She turned quickly and cut up from the bottom 
slicing his arms above the elbow. The old man dropped the axe and his bloody hands 
followed, he immediately jumped at her again. She jumped and slashed him across the neck. 
More out of pity than necessity, the open arteries in his arms would have bled out in a few 
moments. 
He lay there, parting with life with incredible difficulty, without his severed limbs, he 
squirmed like a worm. Ciri stood over him. In her teeth, sand gritted. She spat it out on the 
dying old man. Before the saliva hit him, he died. 
 
 *** 
 
The strange construction in front of the cottage that resembled a scaffold was decorated 
with iron hooks and rigging. The table and the stump were slippery, covered in grease and 
smelled. Like a slaughterhouse. 
In the kitchen Ciri found a the millet porridge, full of pieces of meat and mushrooms. She 
was very hungry, but something stopped her from eating it. Instead she drank only a little 
water from a jug and at a small wrinkled apple. 
Some stairs descended deep into a cool cellar. The shelves were stored with earthenware 
pots and lard. Meat hung from the ceiling. Some remnants of a thing. 

She ran from the cellar, as if chased by demons, She fell into the nettles and rose, 
staggering away from the cottage. Despite having an empty stomach, she vomited violently 
for a long time. 
The thigh hanging in the cellar belonged to a child. 
 
*** 
 
Driven by a stench, she found a pit whose bottom was half flooded with water were 
Gramps threw his garbage, everything that he did not eat. Looking at the skulls, ribs and 
pelvis rolling in the mud, Ciri realised with horror that she had survived only because of the 
old man's lust, he wanted to rape more than he wanted food. If his hunger at that moment had 
been stronger that his lustful appetites, he would have treacherously struck her with the axe 
and not the gnarled stick. He would have hung her by her feet on the wooden gallows, gutted 
her, pulled off her skin and chopped her up on the table... 
Although her legs were shaking with weakness and her left hand throbbed with pain, she 
dragged the body into the forest and plunged it into the stinking mud, between the bones of 
his victims. She returned to the cottage with branches and dried twigs and placed them 
around the four sides of the house. The carefully set fire to all four sides. 
She left when the fire had flared up properly. When she felt the heat, heard the roar and 
when she was sure that a random shower would not prevent the razing of this place. 
 
*** 
 
Her hand was not so bad. It was swollen, yes, and it hurt, but there didn't sem to be any 
broken bones. 
When evening came, a single moon appeared in the sky. However Ciri did not want to 
accept this world as her own. 
Or stay in in any longer than necessary. 
 
*** 
 
'Tonight,' Nimue whispered, 'will be a good night. I can feel it.' 
Condwiramurs sighed. 
The horizon burned in gold and purple. A beam of the same colours settled on the lake. 
They were sitting on the terrace in chairs, behind them was a mirror in an ebony frame 
and a tapestry depicting a small castle clinging to a rocky wall which was reflected in the 
water of a mountain lake. 
How many evenings, Condwiramurs thought, will we sit up in the falling twilight and the 
darkness? Without any results? Just talking? 
It got colder. The sorceress and the adept were wrapped in furs. From the lake came the 
creak of oars from the boat of the Fisher King, but they could not see it as it was hidden by 
the blinding glow of sunset. 
'Quite often I dream,' Condwiramurs said, 'I'm in an icy wasteland, where there is 
nothing but piled of white snow and the sun sparkling on ice. And there is silence, silence 
calling in my ears. Unnatural silence. The silence of death.' 
Nimue nodded, as if she knew what this meant. But she said nothing. 
'Suddenly, it seems that I can hear something,' continued the adept. 'I can feel the surface 
of the ice tremble under my feet. I kneel down in the snow. The ice is clear as glass, it is from 
a mountain lake, stones and fish can be seen through the thick pane. In my dream, I can also 

see that, the layer of ice is dozens or perhaps hundreds of inches thick. This does not prevent 
me from hearing... people screaming for help. Below the ice... there is a frozen world.' 
Nimue remained silent. 
'Of course, I know,' said the adept, 'the dream is born from Ithlinne's Prophecy, the 
famous White Winter, the Time of the White Frost, the time of the Wolf Blizzard. The world 
has perished under snow and ice that is the forecast of re-birth. Pure and better.' 
'I deeply believe that,' Nimue said softly, 'it will regenerate the world. But not that it 
would be better.' 
'What?' 
'You heard me.' 
'I did not mishear? Nimue, the Time of the White frost has been predicted many times, 
every cold winter; people believe that it is beginning. But today not even children believe that 
some long winter will destroy the world.' 
'So you can see, children do not believe, but I do.' 
'do you have some rational reasons,' Condwiramurs said with slight irony, 'or is it a 
mystical belief in the infallibility of elven prophecies?' 
Nimue's fingers twitched among the fur in which she was shrouded. 
'Our world,' she began in her mentoring tone, 'has the shape of a sphere and revolves 
around the sun. Do you agree or do you belong to one of those tiny sects that believe the 
opposite?' 
'No, I'm not one of them. I accept the heliocentric doctrine and believe that the earth is 
round.' 
'Good. Then you know that the earth's axis is tilted and the track the earth takes around 
the sun is not circular, but elliptical?' 
'I've learned about it. But I am not an astronomer, so...' 
'There is no need to be an astronomer, just think logically. The earth moves around the 
sun in an elliptical shaped orbit and so during its movements it is sometimes closer and 
sometimes further away. The further the earth is from the sun, it is logical to think that the 
colder it will be. And thanks to the planetary axis the northern hemisphere is further from the 
light.' 
'This is logical.' 
'Both aspects – the ellipse of the orbit and the inclination of the axis are subject to 
change. Believed to be cyclic. The ellipse can be more or less elliptical, elongated or 
shallower, the axis also experiences changes. Due to the distance from the Sun and the large 
tilt of the earth's axis, the polar regions receive very little light and heat.' 
'I understand.' 
'Less light in the northern hemisphere means more residual snow. The white glistening 
snow reflects sunlight so the temperature drops even more. The snow remains even longer, 
the larger tracts do not melt, or only briefly. The more snow, the more residual, the more 
white and shiny reflective surface...' 
'I understand.' 
'The snow falls and falls and there becomes more and more of it. Note that, the sea 
currents migrate from the south of the warm air. Humidity condenses over the cold areas and 
causes further snow to fall. The greater the temperature differences, the more abundant the 
snowfall. It gets colder.' 
'I understand.' 
'The snow becomes so heavy the ice becomes pressed and forms a glacier. On which, as 
we know, the snow keeps falling, squeezing it even more, the glacier grows, not only 
increasingly thick but covering more space. White spaces...' 

'That reflects the sunlight,' Condwiramurs nodded. 'Getting colder and colder still. The 
White Light that Ithlinne prophesied. But can this really lead to a cataclysm? Can the ice that 
likes to the north suddenly start moving south, crushing and covering everything? How 
quickly can the ice at the poles grow? How many inches a year?' 
'As you probably know,' Nimue said staring at the lake, 'the only port that does not 
freeze is the Gulf of Praxeda in Pont Vanis.' 
'I know.' 
'Enrich your knowledge. You know that a hundred years ago, all the major ports in the 
Gulf were open water throughout the year. In the Chronicles it is recorded that even in the 
last century that Talgar could still grow cucumbers and pumpkins and sunflowers. Now those 
crops won't grow there, because the growing season is too short and the winter is too rigid. 
Did you ever hear that Kaedwen had its own vineyard? Wines from the local vines were 
probably not the best, but they were cheap. And the local poets sang of them. Those vines no 
longer grow in Kaedwen because the winters, unlike the old, bring severe frosts and heavy 
snows that kill the vines. Not only inhibits the vegetation, but simply kills it. Destroys it.' 
'I understand.' 
'Yes,' reflected Nimue. 'Shall I tell you more? Perhaps of the snow falls in Talgar in mid-
November. And at the end of December and January, there is snow in the catchment area of 
Alba, where even a hundred years ago nobody had seen snow. Why at Birke do we celebrate 
the welcoming of spring, what do you think?' 
'It's the spring equinox. But it is true that the little children wonder, because outside there 
is still snow on the ground. At the same time I have read that in ancient times that during 
Birke daffodils and crocuses had already bloomed.' 
'You mean the ancient times, not more than a hundred and twenty years ago. Historically 
it has been recently. Ithlinne was right, the prophecy is fulfilling. The world is perishing 
under the ice. Mankind will perish because of the Destroyer, who was to open the way to 
salvation. As we know from legend, he did not.' 
'For reasons that are not explained in the legend.' 
'That is true. However, the fact remains, the White Frost is coming. The civilizations of 
the northern hemisphere are doomed. They will disappear under the sprawling ice, under 
permafrost and snow. But there is no need to panic, because it will take some time before it 
happens.' 
The Sun went down and the blinding brilliance from the surface of the lake disappeared. 
Now a softer beam of light fell on the water. The moon bathed the tower of Inis Vitre in a 
bright glow. 
'How long?' said Condwiramurs. 'How long do we have left, do you think? ' 
'A lot.' 
'How much, Nimue?' 
'About three thousand years.' 
Somewhere on the lake, the Fisher King struck himself with the oar and cursed loudly. 
Nimue shook her head. Condwiramurs sighed. 
'I've calmed down a bit. But only a little.' 
 
*** 
 
The next place was one of the most horrible that Ciri had seen, it certainly placed in the 
top ten, and maybe even ahead of them. It was a port, she saw boats and galleys with springs 
and lines, she saw a forest of masts and saw sails hanging heavy in the still air. Around her 
twisted columns of smoke, smelly smoke. 

The smoke rose from crooked huts also standing along the port. In them she heard voices, 
the sound of crying children. 
Kelpie jumped, pulling hard on the reins and hitting her hooves hard on the cobblestones. 
Ciri looked down and saw dead rats. They were everywhere, some of the rodents were dead, 
other writhing in pain, with pale pink legs. 
Something is not right, she thought, suddenly feeling panic. Flee, run away from here as 
quickly as possible. 
Next to a pole where fishing nets hung a man was sitting on the ground. His shirt was torn 
across the chest, his head was laying on his shoulder. He did not look like he was sleeping. A 
few steps further on lay more people. The did not move when Kelpie's horseshoes tinkled on 
the pavement right next to their heads. Ciri bent so that she could pass under clothes hanging 
on a clothesline. They reeked of the staleness of dirt. 
At the door to one of the huts was a cross painted with lime or white paint. Behind its 
roof, black smoke rode into the blue sky. A child was crying, someone shouted in the 
distance, someone closer was coughing and snorting. A dog howled. 
Ciri's hands felt itchy. She looked down. 
Her hands were covered in black fleas. 
She screamed aloud. Trembling with fear and disgust, she became to violently wave her 
arms. She startled Kelpie, who took off at a gallop, Ciri nearly fell off. Clutching the side of 
the mare with her thighs she combed her fingers through her hair, ruffling it. She tore at her 
jacket and shirt. Kelpie continued to gallop through the smoke that blew across the street. Ciri 
screamed in horror. 
She was going through hell, the inferno, the most terrible of nightmares. Among the 
houses marked with white crosses. Among smouldering rags. Among the dead lying alone 
and those who were lying in piles, one on the other. And among the living, ragged, half-
naked ghouls with sunken cheeks, crawling through the muck, screaming in a language she 
did not understand, stretching out their emaciated arms, covered in horrible bloody 
pustules... 
Run! Run away from here! 
Even in the black nothingness of nonexistence of the archipelago of places, Ciri smelt for 
a long time in her nostrils the smoke and the stench. 
 
*** 
 
The next place was also a port. But here I was spring and it had a channel, and in the 
channel were boats, scooters, yachts and a forest of masts. But in this place of masts, there 
were screaming gulls and it smelled of joyous normal home – wet wood, seawater and fish. 
On the deck of a boat, two men were fighting, screaming with excited voices. 
She understood everything that they were saying. 
They were arguing over the price of herring. 
Not far away stood a tavern, and from its doors came the musty smell of beer and loud 
voices, laughter and the clinking of glasses. Someone was singing a loud obscene song. 
 
Luned, c'ard t'elaine arse 
Aen a meath ail aen sparse! 
 
She knew where she was. Before she read the name on the stern of one of the galleys – 
Evall Muire. And it port of origin – Baccala. She knew where she was. 
In Nilfgaard. 
She fled before anyone paid her any attention. 

However, before she was immersed into nothingness, a flea, which had jumped on her 
shirt at the last place and followed her through space and time, jumped from her shirt onto the 
pier. 
The flea settled onto the bare skin of a rat, an old male mousy veteran of many wars, 
which was testified by his torn ear. That evening the rat and flea boarded a vessel. And the 
next morning they sailed the high seas. The ship they boarded was old and dirty and bore the 
name "Catriona". That name would go down in history. But nobody knew anything about that 
yet. 
 
*** 
 
The next place, though she could hardly believe it, surprised her with a truly idyllic 
image. It was a quiet riverside, with a lazy stream flowing among the willows, alders and 
oaks which leant over the water. Next to a bridge with a delicate stone arch linking the two 
shores stood a wild vine covered inn. 
Above the door swung a sign with large gold letter, which Ciri did not know how to read. 
However, because of the inscription of a shield also nicely illustrated with a black cat on it, 
Ciri decided to call the tavern "The Black Cat". 
Flowing from the tavern was the smell of food. Ciri almost fell into a swoon. It didn't 
take her long to decide. She adjusted the sword on her back and stepped inside. 
The tap room was empty, only one table sat three men, who at first glance appeared to be 
villagers. They did not even look at Ciri who out of habit sat in a corner with her back to the 
wall. 
The landlady, a stout woman with a spotless apron and a cap, came up to her and asked 
something. Her voice was thunderous but melodious. Ciri poked one finger towards her 
mouth and patted her stomach, then took a silver button from her blouse and laid it on the 
table. Seeing the surprised expression on the woman's face she was about to pluck a second 
button, but the woman stopped her with a gesture. 
The silver button provided her with a heavy casserole and vegetable soup, a pot of timber 
beans and smoked meat, bread and a jug of watered wine. 
From the first tablespoon, Ciri thought she was going to cry. But she controlled herself. 
She ate slowly. Relishing it all. 
The landlady came over and asked her a ringing question, and put her hands to her cheek. 
She wanted to know if she was staying the night. 
'I don't know,' said Ciri. 'Maybe. In any case, that you for the invitation.' 
The woman smiled and walked into the kitchen. 
Ciri undid her belt and leaned back against the wall. She wondered what to do next. This 
place, in contrast to some previous ones, was pleasant and she was tempted to stay longer. 
However, experience had taught her that excessive confidence can be dangerous and a lack of 
vigilance can be fatal. 
From out of nowhere a black cat appeared, exactly the same as the one on the signboard. 
It arched its back and rubbed itself on her calf. She stroked the cat and he pushed his head 
into her palm, then settled down beside her and began to lick his fur. Ciri watched. 
She saw Jarre sitting next to a fire in a circle with ugly rogues. They all nibbled at 
something that resembled a piece of coal. 
'Jarre?' 
'It has to be this way,' said the boy while watching the dancing flames. 'I read about it in 
the History of War, Marshal Pelligram's work. So it is necessary when the country is in 
danger.' 
'What is necessary? Eating coal?' 

'Yes. Exactly so. The motherland calls. And partly for personal reasons.' 
'Ciri, do not fall asleep in the saddle,' Yennefer said. 'We have arrived.' 
The had arrived at a city, where the doors and gates of the houses had painted white 
crosses on the. They rode into a dense, suffocation smoke, coming from the bodies of the 
dead who were being burned. Yennefer didn't seem to notice. 
'I have to beautify.' 
Before her face, above the ears of her horse appeared mirror. It danced in the air and 
along with a brush that combed her raven tresses. Yennefer only uses magic, and not her 
hands, because... 
Her hands were covered in masses of clotted blood. 
'Mother! What did they do?' 
'Get up, girl,' Coen says. 'Master the pain, get up again on the comb. Otherwise you'll 
catch fear. Do you want to be afraid the rest of your life? ' 
His yellow eyes shine in an unpleasant manner. His sharp, white teeth flash. Then it's not 
Coen. It is a cat, a black cat... 
A column of an army, many miles long, marches above them wave a forest of spears and 
banners. Jarre has a round helmet on his head and a pike on his shoulder, which he has to 
hold with both hands otherwise the weight would unbalance him. Drums and bagpipes echo, 
and thunder the songs of war. Above the column crows fly. Many crows... 
A lake shore, a field of reeds. An island on the lake. On the island a tower with jagged 
battlements. Above the tower, in the darkening evening sky, the moon shines, and makes the 
tower glow. On the balcony is sitting two women wrapped in furs. A man fishes on a boat... 
A tapestry and a mirror. 
Cir lifted her head with a jerk. In front of her sitting at the table is Eredin Breacc Glas. 
'You should know,' he said, grinning with his even teeth, 'that you are only delaying the 
inevitable. You belong to us and we'll find you.' 
'Never.' 
'You will come back to us. You have seen a couple of times and places, but sooner or 
later you'll get to the Sprial. And the Sprial is ours. You will never get back to your world 
and time. After all, it is already too late, you have nothing to return to. The people that you 
knew are long dead, their graves overgrown with grass and their names forgotten. Your name 
too...' 
'You're lying! I do not believe you!' 
'You belief is you thing. But know that soon you will come to the Spiral and I'll be there 
waiting. Admit that you secretly long for me, me elaine luned.' 
'You are delusional!' 
'We, Aen Elle, perceive such things. You were fascinated with me, and you were afraid 
of your desires. You still want me, Zireael. My hands, their touch...' 
He jumped to her feet, overturning her cup, fortunately empty and grabbed her sword. 
She immediately calmed down. She was in the "Black Cat" inn. She had fallen asleep at the 
table. The hand that had touched her hair, was the landlady's. Ciri was not fond of this ind of 
contact, but the woman simply radiated kindness, for which Ciri could not repay with 
rudeness. She allowed her to stroke her head, with a smile and listened to her melodious 
speech. She was tired. 
'I have to go,' she said at last. 
The woman smiled and spoke in her singsong voice. 
How is it possible, thougth Ciri, in all the worlds, places and times, in all languages and 
dialects, this word is always understandable? And always the same? 
'Yes, I have to. My mother is waiting for me.' 

The landlady escorted her into the yard. Before Ciri could jump into the saddle, she 
suddenly hugged her tightly pressing her into her plump breasts. 
'Goodbye. Thank you for your hospitality. Forward, Kelpie.' 
She went straight over the arched bridge over the calm river. When the mare's horseshoes 
rang on the stones, he looked up. The woman was still standing at the front of the inn. 
Concentration, fists on her temples. A noise in her ears like the sound of a sea shell. A 
flash. Soft black nothingness. 
'Good luck, my girl,' Theres Lapin, owner of the pub Au Chat Noir in Pont-sur-Yonne on 
the road from Melun to Auxerre. 
'Godspeed!' 
 
*** 
 
Concentration, fist on her temples. A noise in her ears like the sound of a sea shell. A 
flash. Soft, black nothingness. 
Places. A lake. An island. The moon like a half thaler, it's brilliance glowing over the 
water of a lake. The mast of a boat with a man fishing... 
On the terrace of the tower... Two women? 
 
*** 
 
Condwiramurs could not stand it, she shouted with excitement and then immediately 
covered her mouth with her hand. The Fisher King dropped his nets with a splash and the 
swore terribly then with his mouth open he froze. Nimue did not move. 
On the surface of the lake, on a ray of moonlight Appeared a black horse with a rider on 
her back. 
Minue calmly reached out and shouted a spell. The tapestry on the wall in the room bust 
into multicoloured lights. The lights reflected in the oval mirror, danced on the walls like 
coloured bees and then sailed out of the room like a rainbow, as light as a ribbon that lit up 
the lake like the first rays of dawn. 
The black mare lifted her head and whinnied loudly. Nimue abruptly extended her hands 
and shouted another spell. Condwiramurs saw an image forming in the air, growing more 
tightly focused. The image immediately popped into focus. Then became a portal. A gate, 
beyond which they could see... 
A plain full of shipwrecks. A castle stuck on a sharp cliff, lording over the dark mirror of 
a mountain lake... 
'Over there!' Nimue shouted loudly. 'This is the path that you must follow! Ciri, Pavetta's 
daughter! Enter the portal, follow the path that leads to your meeting with fate! That closes 
the wheel of time! Let Ouroboros bit his own tail. Do not wander anymore! Hurry to help 
your loved ones! This is the right way to go, witcheress!' 
The mare snickered and buried her hooves in the air. The girl in the saddle, turned her 
head, looking alternatively at them and the image produced by the tapestry and mirror. She 
tossed her hair from her face, on which Condwiramurs saw the scar. 
'Believe me, Ciri,' cried Nimue. 'You know me! We've seen each other once already!' 
'I remember,' they heard her answer. 'I believe you. Thank you.' 
They watched her spur the mare towards the portal. Before the image faded, the ashen 
haired girl turned in the saddle and waved. 
Then everything disappeared. The lake was calm, the bar of moonlight settled. It was so 
quiet, they thought they could hear the loud breathing of the Fisher King. 

Nimue refrained from tears and tightly embraced Condwiramurs. She like a little 
trembling fairy. They remained in the embrace for some time. Without words they both 
turned and looked at the place where the Gate of Worlds had disappeared. 
'Godspeed, witcheress!' they cried in unison. 'Good luck on your journey!' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Not far from the battlefield, where that terrible battle between almost the entire North 
was facing almost all of the aggressor Nilfgaard's power, there were two fishermen villages 
– Old Butts and Brenna. However, since Brenna was burned to the ground, people used to 
talk about the "Battle of Old Butts". Today, however, it is referred to as the "Battle of 
Brenna" for two reasons – First, Brenna is now restored and is now a prosperous settlement, 
while Old Butts was abandoned by its inhabitants a long time ago and is now overgrown with 
nettles and weeds. Secondly – the original name in the context of that grand and tragic 
struggle seemed extremely awkward, as if it were not enough that roughly thirty thousand 
unfortunates gave their lives but with their butts, that were old. 
So, in historical literature the military has taken to calling it the "Battle of Brenna" and 
not just in our writings but in Nilfgaard's who have many more sources than ours. 
 
Reverend Jarre the Elder of Ellander 
Annales seu Cronicae Incliti Regni Temeriae 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Chapter Eight 
 
 
'Cadet Fitz-Osterlen, you've fail. Sit down. I would like to draw your attention to this 
cadet's ignorance of important and famous events from the history of his native country that 
every good citizen and patriot should know, but for a future office is simply inexcusable. And 
one more thing, cadet. For twenty years I have worked at this school and I do not remember 
even a single semester when an exam hasn't had a question about the Battle of Brenna. Your 
ignorance practically eliminates your chances for a military career, but when you become a 
baron, there is no obligation to become an officer, so maybe you can try your hand at politics. 
Or diplomacy. I wish this wholeheartedly, Cadet Fitz-Osterlen. The rest of us will get back to 
the Battle of Brenna, gentlemen. Cadet Puttkammer!' 
'Present!' 
'To the map, please and continue. From where the lord Baron's knowledge failed.' 
'As ordered! When Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn heard the reports from the secret 
service confirming that the Nordling's armies were coming to aid the besieged fortress of 
Mayena, he decided to make a quick march to the west. His plan was to cut off the enemy 
troops and to force them into a decisive battle. For this purpose he distributed the Center 
Group Army. Some of his forces he left at Mayena, the rest of his forces rapid marched...' 
'Cadet Puttkammer! Are you a writer of historical fiction or a future military 
commander? What is the name for "the rest of his forces"? Please give me the exact orde de 
bataille of Marshal Coehoorn's strike team. Using military terminology!' 
'Yes, commander. Field Marshal Coehoorn had at that time, two armies – the Fourth 
Cavalry Army, led by Major General Marcus Braibant, patron of our school...' 
'Very good, Cadet Puttkammer.' 
'Fucking toady,' Cadet Fitz-Osterlen hissed from his bench. 
'...And the Third Army, commanded by Lieutenant General Rhetz de Mellis-Stoke. The 
Fourth Cavalry Army, with a strength of twenty thousand soldiers was comprised of the 
following units – the Venendal Division, the Magne Division, the Frundsberg Division, the 
Second Vicovaro Brigade, the Seventh Daerlan Brigade, the Nauzicaa Division and the 
Vrihedd Brigade. The Third Army was composed of the Alba Division, the Deithwen 
Division and... umm. The Division...' 
 
*** 
 
'The Ard Feainn Division,' said Julia Abatemarco. 'If your men didn't mistake anything. 
They really had banners with silver suns on them?' 
'Yes, Colonel,' said the commander of the scouts, without hesitation. 
'So, Ard Feainn,' mused Pretty Kitty. 'That's interesting. This means that in the three 
marching columns that you saw, not only is the Fourth Army coming against us, but most of 
the Third as well. I do not believe it; I have to see it with my own eyes. Captain, take over 
command during my absence. Send out immediately a transmission to Colonel Pangratt...' 
'Colonel Abatemarco, is it reasonable for you to personally...' 
'That's an order!' 
'As you command!' 
'This is a gamble, Colonel,' the commander of the scouts shouted over the thunder of 
hooves. 'We could run into a company of elven scouts.' 
'Don't talk! Lead!' 

They galloped through a valley, past a stream and then turned into some woods. They had 
to slow down as their riding was hindered by the undergrowth; also there was the threat of 
running into one of the Nilfgaardian reconnaissance patrols. Even though the condottieri 
scout approached from the flank of the enemy, not from the front, there was still a good 
chance the flank was protected. The actions they took were risky as hell. But Pretty Kitty was 
known for such frivolous things. And there was not in the whole of the Free Company any 
soldier who wouldn't have followed her – even to hell. 
'It's here,' said the commander of the scouts. 'This is the tower.' 
Julia Abatemarco shook her head. The tower was twisted, ruined, bristling with broken 
beams and a patchwork of holes that the west wind blew through whistling like a bagpipe. No 
one had any idea who or why the tower had been built in this secluded spot. But it was known 
that it had been built a long time ago. 
'It will not collapse?' 
'Certainly not, Colonel.' 
Among the Free Company, the condottieri did not use 'sir' or 'ma'am'. Only rank. 
Julia swiftly climbed to the top of the tower. The commander of the scouts joined her 
after some time, panting like a bull covering a cow. Pretty Kitty stood on the tilted 
battlements and watched the horizon through a spyglass, while putting her tongue between 
her teeth and sticking out her bottom. At the sight, the commander of the scouts felt a slight 
thrill. However, for his own safety, he quickly mastered it. 
'On my soul, Ard Feainn,' Julia Abatemarco licked her lips. 'I can see the Seventh 
Daerlan, the elves of the Vrihedd Brigade our friends from Maribor and Mayena... Aha! 
There are also the skullheads, the famous Nauzicaa Brigade... I can also see the flames of the 
armoured Deithwen Division... And the white banner with the black Alerion of the Alba 
Division.' 
'You recognized them,' muttered the commander, 'like old acquaintances... How do you 
know them?' 
'I graduated from the military academy,' said Pretty Kitty carelessly, as if it was nothing. 
'I am a career officer. Well, I saw what I wanted to see. Let's go back to the banner.' 
 
*** 
 
'He has brought against us the Fourth Cavalry Army and the Third,' Julia Abatemarco 
said. 'I repeat, the whole of the Fourth Cavalry and the Third Army. Behind the vanguard I 
saw dust clouds reaching up to the sky. In those three columns, I estimate about forty 
thousand horses, maybe more. Maybe...' 
'Maybe Coehoorn divided his Center Group Army,' finished Adam "Adieu" Pangratt, 
chosen to be the supreme commander of the Free Company. 'Maybe he took only his Fourth 
Cavalry and the horses from the Third and no infantry so he could proceed as quickly as 
possible... Ha, you know what I'd do if I were coming up against King Foltest's constable 
Natalis...' 
'I know,' Pretty Kitty's eyes flashed with amusement. 'I know what you'd do, you'd send 
runners.' 
'Of course.' 
'Natalis is a cunning fox. Maybe tomorrow...' 
'Maybe,' Adieu said again. 'I guess he thinks like me. Come with me, Julia, I want to 
show you something.' 
They moved ahead of the rest of the army. The sun was almost touching the hills to the 
west, the forest and grassland darkened and the valley was filled with a long shadow. 

However, it was still light enough for Pretty Kitty to immediately notice what Pangratt 
wanted to show her. 
'Here,' Adieu said, confirming her guess. 'If I was the commander of our forces, this is 
where I would pose the battle tomorrow.' 
'It is good terrain,' Julia admitted. 'Hard, straight and plain... We could marshal the 
forces there... on those plains. And that hill is an idea command post.' 
'You're right. Look right in the middle of the valley, there is a lake and we can use that 
tactically as well, with the river, although they are shallow, they have marshy shores... What 
was the river called, Julia? The one we passed through yesterday. Do you remember?' 
'I forgot. The Scoop, I guess. Or something like that.' 
 
*** 
 
"Those who are familiar with the local surroundings can easily imagine the situation 
better than someone who has to rely solely on cartography to find the settlement of Brenna. It 
was to this settlement that the royal army arrived, in truth there was no settlement because 
during a battle the year before, Elven commandos burned it to the ground. It was there on the 
left flank that the Redanian contingent, commanded by Count de Ruyter took a position. He 
had eight thousand men, infantry and cavalry. 
The center of the army was located under the hill, which was later called Gallows Hill. 
On this high ground stood King Foltest's constable, John Natalis which gave him a perfect 
view of the battlefield. Below him were grouped the main strength of our troops – twelve 
thousand Temerian and Redanian infantry formed into four square units, beyond which were 
arrayed ten banners of heavy cavalry. In reserve were three thousand Maribor infantry under 
the command of Voivode Bronibor. 
From the southern shore of the lake, which the local residence called Gold, which 
meandered down to the Cholta, were deployed the units of our right flank – The Volunteer 
Army of Mahakam dwarves, eight squadrons of light cavalry and factions of the great 
condottieri, the Free Company. The right flank was under the command of Adam Pangratt 
and the dwarf Barclay Els. 
At a distance of nearly two miles across from the royal army, the army of Nilfgaard was 
mobilized under the command of Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn. It's armed populous stood 
like an iron wall, regiment after regiment, company after company, squadron after squadron, 
as far as the eye could see. And through the forest of banners and halberds you could see that 
their position was not only wide, but also deep. 
Their army was about forty-six thousand strong at that time, however, only a few people 
knew this. Which was fortunate, because the determination of many of our soldiers did not 
waver at the sight of the immense power of Nilfgaard. 
But even the most bold of heart had theirs pounding faster under their armour, because it 
was obvious that a difficult and bloody battle was about to begin here soon and that many of 
those lined up here would not see the sunset." 
 
Jarre pushed up his glasses, which had slipped down onto his nose, and re-read through 
the entire piece of text again, sighed, rubbed his bald head and erased the last sentence. 
The wind whispered through the linden trees and bees buzzed. Children, as children do, 
tried to out shout one another. 
A ball bounced off of a wall and stooped at the feet of the old man. Before he could 
awkwardly reach down, one of his grandsons passed him and grabbed the ball while running. 
As he passed he banged the table. Jarre, with his right hand, saved the inkwell from falling, 
and with the stump of his left hand held the ream of paper. 

Bees, yellow and heavy with pollen from the linden trees, buzzed loudly overhead. 
Jarre resumed writing. 
 
"The morning was cloudy, but the sun pierced the clouds to explicitly remind us of the 
passing hours. The wind picked up, the flags and banners fluttered like a flock of birds rising 
to depart. Before us the Nilfgaardians were still, and all began to wonder why Field Marshal 
Menno Coehoorn did not give the order to attack..." 
 
*** 
 
'When?' Menno Coehoorn looked up from his map and planted his eyes on his 
commanders. 'You want to know when I'll give the order to attack?' 
No one answered. Menno watched his officers. Those who seemed the most tense and 
nervous where those who had to stay in the reserve. Elan Trahe, commander of the Seventh 
Daerlan and Kees van Lo of the Nauzicca brigade. Clearly nervous too was Ouder de 
Wyngalt, the aide-de-camp of Field Marshal Coehoorn, who had not even come close to a 
battle field. 
But those who personally commanded battle actions looked calm, even bored. Marcus 
Braibant yawned, Rhetz de Mellis-Stoke was picking at his ear with his little finger, Colonel 
Ramon Tyrconnel, the young commander of the Ard Feainn division softly whistled while his 
eyes wandered over the distant horizon. Another of the promising young officers, Colonel 
Liam aep Muir Moss of the Deithwen division flicked through a pocket volume of his 
favourite verses. The commander of the Alba division of Lancers, Tobor Eggebracht was 
scratching at his collar with the handle of a riding whip like a coachman. 
'The attack will start,' Coehoorn said, 'when the reconnaissance patrols return. I'm 
worried about the hills to the north. Before we strike, gentlemen, I must know who or what is 
behind them.' 
 
*** 
 
Lamarr Flaut was terribly afraid. Fear gripped his bowels, and it seemed to him that his 
intestines where coat with slimy eels that were doggedly searching for a way to get to 
freedom. An hour earlier, the patrol had received orders which had been put into motion. 
Flaut, in the depth of his mind, was hoping that the fear would be drowned out by the cold 
morning and routine, a ritual that he had exercised a hundred times, harsh, serve and military 
ceremonial. He was wrong. Now, after an hour and travelling about five miles, deep into the 
dangerous enemy territory, the fear still gnawed at him. 
The patrol stopped on the hillside below the fir forest. The riders were carefully 
concealed in a growth of tall junipers. Before them stretched a wide valley. Fog spun around 
the top of the grass. 
'Nobody,' said Flaut. 'Not a soul. Let's go back. We've travelled too far.' 
The sergeant looked at him in askance. Far? They had barely gone a few miles and moved 
like lame turtles. 
'We should,' he said, 'go out there to the opposite hill, Lieutenant. We will have a better 
view. Especially of both valleys. From there we can see if anyone is in the other valley. What 
do you think, sir? It is only a few yards.' 
A few yards, Flaut thought. In open terrain, which is as flat as a pan. The eels writhed 
and sought a way out of his guts. Flaut felt that at least one of them was on the right track. 
I heard the jingle of spurs. A horse snorting. There, among those pines, on that sandy 
slope. Is something moving there? A silhouette? Are we being surrounded? 

A rumour ran through the camp a few days ago that the condottieri Free Company had 
caught in an ambush a party from the Vrihedd brigade and managed to capture an elf alive. It 
was said that he had been castrated; his tongue had been torn out, all of his fingers cut off of 
his hand... And finally they put out his eyes. 
Then they joked, saying he would not be able to have fun with his elven whores. And he 
wouldn't be able to watch others having fun. 
'Well, sir?' the sergeant spoke hoarsely. 'Do we approach the hill?' 
Lamarr Flaut swallowed. 
'No,' he said. 'Let's not waste time. We have found nothing; there are no enemies here. 
We have to go back and give our report to the commander. Let's go back!' 
 
*** 
 
Menno Coehoorn listened to the report and raised his head from the map. 
'To the banners,' he ordered shortly. 'Mister Braibant, Mister Mellis-Stoke. Attack!' 
'Long live the Emperor!' yelled Tyrconnel and Eggebracht. Menno looked at the 
strangely. 
'To the banners,' he repeated. 'May the Great Sun shine on your glory.' 
 
*** 
 
Milo Vanderbeck, a Halfling and a field surgeon who was better known by his nickname, 
Rusty, sucked through his nostrils the familiar mix of smells of iodine, ammonia, alcohol and 
magical elixirs that floated around the tent. He wanted to savour the fragrance of this now, 
while it was still healthy, pure and clinically sterile. He knew that it would not stay this way 
for long. 
He looked at the operation table, still as white as driven snow and his instruments, the 
dozens of tools engendered respect and trust with the impassive and menacing dignity of it's 
cold steel, pristine cleanliness, order placement and aesthetics. 
Gathered around the instruments was his bustling staff – three women. No, Rusty mental 
corrected himself. A woman and two girls. No. One old, yet beautiful and young-looking 
woman. And two children. 
The sorceress and healer named Marti Sodergren. And two volunteers. Shani, a student 
from Oxenfurt. And Iola, a priestess from the Temple of Melitele in Ellander. 
Marti Sodergren I know, Rusty thought, I've already worked with this beauty, more than 
once. A little nymphomaniac, she also has a tendency towards hysteria, but so long as she 
works her magic. Her spells for anaesthetics, disinfectants and to stop haemorrhages. 
Iola, is a priestess, or rather an adept. A girl of ordinary beauty like a linen cloth and big, 
strong peasant hands. The temple prevented her hands from being stained with dirt in a silt 
field. But she could not disguise her origin. No, Rusty thought, in principle, I have nothing to 
fear from her. These hands are peasant hands, trustworthy hands. In addition, the girls at the 
temple rarely fail, and in moments of stress do not crack, but look back on their religion, in 
their mystical faith. Interestingly; it helps. 
He looked at the red-haired Shani, deftly threading curved suture needles. 
Shani. A child from the meagre neighbourhood that received her education at the 
University due to her infinite desire for knowledge and unimaginable sacrifice of poor 
parents. A student. What can she do? Threading needles? Tightening a tourniquet? Holding 
hooks? The question is whether the red-head will faint, drop the hooks and go nose first into 
the open abdomen of the patient being operated on? 

Humans are not very resilient, he thought. I asked them to give me an elf. Or someone of 
my own race. But they did not. They do not trust us. Or me, anyway. I'm a halfling. Not 
human. Alien. 
'Shani!' 
'Yes, Mister Vanderbeck?' 
'Rusty. That is, for you "Mister Rusty". What is this, Shani? What is it for?' 
'Are you examining me, Mister Rusty?' 
'Answer, girl!' 
'This is a scraper! To remove the periosteum during an amputation! In order for the 
periosteum not to burst under the serrated blade, you must saw cleanly! Are you satisfied? 
Have I gained your approval?' 
'Quiet, girl, quiet.' 
He ran his fingers through his hair. 
Interesting, He thought. Here we have four doctors. And all are redheads! Is this fate or 
what? 
'Please come out, ladies,' he nodded to his assistants, 'before the tent.' 
The obeyed. But each of the three muttered under their breath. Each in their own way. 
Before the tent sat a group of medics, enjoying the last minutes of sweat idleness. Rusty 
gave them a stern look, and sniffed to see if they were already drunk. 
The blacksmith, a muscular fellow, was busy rearranging tools on his bench that would be 
used to rescue the wounded from warped armour and helmets. 
'There,' Rusty began without preamble, pointing towards the battlefield, 'will soon begin 
a bloodbath. And right afterwards we will get our first wounded. You all know what to do, 
where your position is and what your responsibilities are. If you behave accordingly, you can 
no go wrong. Are we clear?' 
The girls listened to his speech without comment. 
'There,' Rusty pointed in the same direction as before, 'will soon begin hundreds of 
thousands of people trying to hurt and kill each other. In very sophisticated ways. In this and 
two other hospitals we have twelve doctors. There is no way in the world we'll be able to 
help all those in need. Not even a fraction of those in need. And to tell you the truth, no one 
even expects that from us. But we will treat them. Because it is, sorry for the cliché, the 
reason for our existence. To those who need us.' 
His listeners remained silent. Rusty shrugged. 
'We cannot do more than we can,' he said quieter and warmer. 'But we will do our all, 
we can do no less than that.' 
 
*** 
 
'They're charging,' Constable John Natalis said while wiping his sweaty palms on his 
pants. 'The Nilfgaardians are charging, Your Majesty, they are coming for us!' 
King Foltest, mastered his dancing horse, a white horse decorated with lilies on his saddle 
and turned his noble profile, worthy of decorating coins towards the constable. 
'We must prepare an appropriate welcome, Lord Constable! Officers!' 
'Death to the Black ones!' yelled the condottiere Adam "Adieu" Pangratt and Count de 
Ruyter. The Constable straightened in his saddle and took a deep breath. 
'To the banners!' 
Drums reverberated, cymbals crashed and horns sounded. The earth trembled under the 
tens of thousands of hooves. 
 
*** 

 
'Now,' said the Halfling, Andy Biberveldt brushing the hair from his pointy ears. 'It 
begins...' 
Tara Hildebrandt, Didi Hofmeier and the others who were gathered around the wagons 
nodded. They could hear the dull, monotonous thud of hooves coming from behind the hill 
and forest. They could feel the ground shaking. 
Then, beyond the forest arose cries. And the noise intensified. 
'The first volley from the archers,' said Andy expertly who had already seen – or rather 
heard – many battles. 'There will be another one.' 
He was right. 
'Now they'll collide.' 
'Ma...ma..maybe we could... hide... under the... wagon,' William Hardbottom proposed, 
stuttering and writhing uneasily. 
Biberveldt and the others looked at the Halfling with pity. 
'Under? The wagons? What for? We are separated from the battle by nearly a quarter of a 
mile. And even if a patrol came here to the rear, hiding under the wagon would not save our 
lives.' 
The noise from the fighting intensified. 
'Now,' Andy Biberveldt estimated and was right again. From a distance of a quarter of a 
mile through the forest came the sound of the royal army colliding with iron and a horrible 
sound that bristled the hair. 
Terrible, desperate, wild squeals and whinnies from animals being mutilated. 
'The cavalry...' Biberveldt licked his lips. 'The cavalry impaled on pikes...' 
 
*** 
 
The old chronicler used the sponge and erased the next sentence, with whose wording he 
was not satisfied. He closed his eyes, reminding himself of that day. The moment when the 
two armies collided. Where both armies, as fierce as mastiffs, jumped at each other's throats, 
tightening in a deadly embrace. 
Jarre looked for the words with which to describe it. 
In vain. 
 
*** 
 
A wedge was driven into the side of the Temerian infantry. A gargantuan live ram of the 
Alba division, crushing everything that protected the living bodies of the infantry – pikes, 
spears, shields and halberds. 
The Alba division struck like a dagger into a living body and shed blood. Horses slipped 
on the blood slicked ground. But although the tip of the dagger penetrated very deep, it did 
not hit the heart or any vital organs. The wedge of the Alba division instead of crushing and 
dismembering the Temerian infantry, dug in and got stuck. They remained stuck in the mass 
of infantry, thick and viscous like pitch. 
At first it did not seem so threatening. The head and wings of the wedge were made up of 
elite troops in heavy armour, from their shields and armour, blows bounced off like a 
blacksmith's hammer off of an anvil, they had also chosen well protected mounts. And 
although every now and again one of the armoured troops fell and the horse with him, their 
swords and axes fell among the infantrymen in a bloody harvest. Surrounded by a mob, the 
division began to penetrate deeper. 

'Albaaa!' Junior Lieutenant Devlin aep Meara heard the battle cry of Colonel Eggebracht, 
rising above the clatter of weapons and the roar of men and the neighing of horses. 'Forward 
Alba! For the Emperor!' 
They moved forward, chopping, pounding and thrusting. Under the reluctant horses 
hooves could be heard sloshing, cracking and wailing. 
'Albaaa!' 
The wedge became stuck again. The landsknechts although crushed and bleeding, did not 
yield and surrounded the cavalry like a vice. The earth trembled. Under the bludgeoning of 
the halberds and the flails, the first line of the wedge fell apart. Riddled with halberds and 
clubs, torn from their mounts by hooks, the knights of the Alba division began to die. 
The dagger stuck in the Temerian infantry, was now not so much crippling iron in a living 
organism but was now like an icicle in the grip of a peasant. 
'Temeriaaa! For the King! Kill the Black ones!' 
It was not easy for the landsknechts. The Alba division did not burst apart. Swords and 
axes rose and feel and for every fallen rider the fierce infantry paid the price in blood. 
The tip of a spear found its way into the crack n the armour of Eggebracht and thrust into 
it. The Colonel cried and swayed in his saddle. Before his men could help him, the combat 
swept him to the ground and the infantry fell upon him. 
The black banner with the Alerion wobbled and fell. Heavy cavalry, among them Junior 
Lieutenant Delvin aep Meara, rushed in that direction, chopping, slashing, trampling and 
yelling. 
I wonder, thought Devlin aep Meara, removing his sword from the shattered skull of a 
Temerian landsknecht. I wonder, he thought deflecting a blow aimed at him, what is the point 
of all this? And who is to blame? 
 
*** 
 
'Uh... And then the Great Masters gathered at... Our Venerable Mother... uh... Whose 
memory will always live within us... For the... Er... great champions of the First Lodge of... 
consulted... and decided...' 
'You did not prepare, adept Abonde. You have failed. Go sit down.' 
'But I learned it. Really...' 
'Sit down.' 
'Why do they have to teach that old nonsense,' Abonde muttered, sitting down. 'Who 
cares about it today... And what is the use...' 
'Silence! Adept Nimue!' 
'Present, Mistress.' 
'Can you answer the questions? If not, sit straight and do not waste my time.' 
'I can.' 
'Well, I'm listening.' 
'So it stands in the annals that the convent of masters took place at the Castle of Bald 
Mountain and there they agree to end the destructive war between the Emperor and the Kings 
of the North. Reverend Mother Assire, the holy martyr, decided that the rulers would not stop 
fighting until completely exhausted. Whereupon, Reverend Mother Philippa, the holy martyr 
decided, "Let's give them an unimaginably horrible, cruel and bloody battle, a battle that will 
be unprecedented. That the imperial armies and troops of the kings will be swimming in the 
blood of that battle, and then, we, the Grand Lodge will force them to make peace". And that 
is exactly what happened. The Reverend Mothers created the Battle of Brenna. And then the 
rulers were force to sign for peace at Cintra.' 

'Well done, adept Nimue. I'd give you an A... if not for the word "so" at the beginning of 
the speech. Do not start a sentence with "so". Sit down. And now we will talk about the 
Peace of Cintra...' 
The bell rang for recess. But the adepts did not react with the immediate snap and clatter 
of desks. They kept their calm and dignity, a distinguished tranquillity. 
They were not snotty first years. They were third years. They were already fourteen. And 
that was important. 
 
*** 
 
'This is the only possible solution,' Rusty assessed the status of the first of the wounded, 
who was covering the clean operation table with blood. 'The thigh bone is crushed. The 
artery has not been cut, otherwise it would have been a corpse brought here. It looks like an 
axe blow, with which the saddle served as a wooden block. You can look for yourselves...' 
Iola and Shani bent over the wounded soldier, Rusty rubbed his palms together. 
'As I said, there is nothing to heal here; we will just have to cut. To work. Iola, a 
tourniquet. Tighten it harder. Shani, a scalpel. Not that one. The larger one for amputation.' 
The wounded man kept shooting terrified glances at their hands, watching their actions 
through the eyes of an animal caught in a trap. 
'A little magic, Marti, if you please,' The Halfling bent over the patient so as to minimize 
his field of vision. 
'I have to amputate son.' 
'Noooo!' the wounded man said, thrashing his head, trying to escape Marti Sodergren's 
hands. 'I don't want you to!' 
'I have to amputate or you will die.' 
'I'd rather die...' The wounded man's movements were getting slower under the influence 
of the healing magic. 'I'd rather die than be maimed... Let me die... I beg you... Let me die!' 
'I cannot,' Rusty raised the scalpel and looked at the bright blade of immaculate steel. 'I 
cannot let you die. I am a doctor.' 
He strongly pressed the blade into the skin and cut deeply. The wounded man howled. 
The sound was inhuman. 
 
*** 
 
The messenger stopped the horse so suddenly that sparks emerged from under the hooves. 
Two assistants seized the halter and calmed the frothy stallion. The messenger dropped to the 
ground. 
'Who are you?' John Natalis said. 'Who sent you?' 
'Lord de Ruyter...' wheezed the messenger. 'We have stopped the Black ones, but we 
have suffered terrible losses. Lord de Ruyter is asking for reinforcements.' 
'No,' the Constable replied after a moment of silence. 'You'll have to endure. You have 
to!' 
 
*** 
 
'Look here,' Rusty said pointing like a collector who was showing his collection. 'Kindly 
look at the resulting cut from a blow to the abdomen. Someone has beat us to it and made this 
unfortunate amateur laparotomy. Good thing he was brought here with care and has not lost 
most of the important organs... At least, I hope not.... What's wrong, Shani? Why the look on 
your face? Up until now, have you only known men from the outside?' 

'The intestines are damaged, Mister Rusty...' 
'A diagnosis as accurate as evident! I don't even have to look, just smell. A handkerchief, 
Iola. Marti, there is still too much blood, be so kind as to give us some of the priceless magic 
of yours. Shani, clamp here, you can see how much he is bleeding. Iola, scalpel.' 
'Who wins?' the soldier was quite awake, his eyes bulging. 'Tell me... Who wins?' 
'Boy,' Rusty said hunch over the open, bloody, pulsating abdominal cavity. 'That is the 
last thing I'd be interested in if I was in your place.' 
 
*** 
 
On the left flank and in the center a fierce fight still lasted, but even though the 
Nilfgaardian army was hard and persistent, they broke upon the King's army like a sea wave 
breaks against the rocks. For there stood the brave soldiers from Maribor, Vizima and 
Tretogor and the grim landsknechts, the mercenary professionals, the cavalry did not scare. 
And there they fought, truly like the sea against the rocks and continued to fight, and it 
was not possible to guess who would win, because even though the waves beat against the 
rock, it did not weaken or disappear and it stood there between the raging waves. 
Like an old hawk, who knows where to fall and attack, so Field Marshal Menno 
Coehoorn knew where to strike. With the iron fist of his army, which consisted of the 
Deithwen division and Ard Feainn division he struck at the enemy lines above Golden Pond. 
That place was fiercely defended by the troops from Brugge, but they were less armed and 
armoured and morale was low. They managed to hold off the attack of the Nilfgaardians. In a 
breath of relief two flags of the Free Company under the command of Adam Pangratt 
arrested the Nilfgaardians, but both sides paid dearly in blood. 
However, the dwarves of the Volunteer brigade were facing a terrible siege and the threat 
of encirclement, which would threaten to tear apart the formation of the royal army. 
Jarre dipped his pen into the inkwell. His grandchildren played in the yard, their laughter 
ringing like bells. 
Seeing the danger threatening, however, John Natalis, attentive as a crane, understood 
what was happening at the time, and without waiting he sent a messenger with orders to 
Colonel Els... 
 
*** 
 
In all the naivety of his seventeen years, the trumpeter, Aubry, thought that he could get 
down to the right wing, transmit his orders and be back up the hill in no more than ten 
minutes. Absolutely no more! Not on Chiquita, his light foot mare. 
Even before he reached the Golden Pond, the trumpeter realised two things – He didn't 
know when he would reach the right wing and he didn't know when he would get back. And 
that Chiquita's agility would be very useful to him. 
At the east end of Golden Pond, fighting raged. The Black one's fought against Brugge's 
cavalry which was protecting the infantry. Before the eyes of the trumpeter from the heat of 
the battle rode individual riders in green, yellow and red robes who fled at a gallop towards 
the river. Behind them like a black river, spilled the Nilfgaardians. 
Aubry jerked the reins, stopping his mare, ready to turn her and flee out of the way of the 
fugitives and pursuers. But his sense of duty prevailed. The trumpeter clung to the horse's 
neck and went into a wild gallop. 
Around him was shouting and confusion, a kaleidoscopic jumble of silhouettes, the glitter 
of swords, crashes and rattles. 

Some of the men from Brugge where backed up to the pond and put up a desperate fight, 
milling about their flags with a crossed anchor. On the field the Black ones murdered the 
infantry who were devoid of support. 
Before his eyes swirled a black cloak with a silver sun on it. 
'Evgyr, Nordling!' 
Aubry yelled and Chiquita excited by the howling, took off at a gallop, saving his life by 
putting it out of reach of the Nilfgaardian's sword. Above his head arrows whistled and 
flashed around the blurring silhouettes. 
Where am I? Where are ours? Where is the enemy? 
'Evgyr morv, Nordling!' 
The thunder of hooves, neighing of horses, banging of weapons, shouting. 
'Stop, you little shit! Not that way!' 
A woman's voice. A woman on a chestnut stallion, in armour, her hair dishevelled and 
her face splattered with blood. Behind her were armed horsemen. 
'Who are you?' she said, smearing the blood on her face with the back of her hand which 
held a sword. 
'Trumpeter Aubry, Second Lieutenant to Constable Natalis... with orders for Colonels 
Pangratt and Els...' 
'There is no way you'll get to "Adieu" through the fighting. We'll go to the dwarves. I'm 
Julia Abatemarco... Fuck! They're flanking us! Ride!' 
He did not have time to protest. Similarly, it would not have made sense. 
After a while of furious galloping, they emerged from the dust in front of the infantry 
square who were defending themselves like a turtle with a wall of shields and like the skin of 
a hedgehog covered with spears. Over the square loomed a huge banner with crossed 
hammers and next to it was a pole with skulls and horsetails. 
The square who were moving and jumping around like a dog escaping from an old man 
waving a stick, were being attacked by the Nilfgaardians. The Ard Feainn division who 
thanks to their coats with the silver sun on them could not be mistaken for any other. 
'Strike, Free Company!' screamed the woman, raising her sword. 'Make them pay!' 
The riders – and with the Aubry – charged the Nilfgaardians. 
The battle only took a few moments. But it was horrible. 
Then the wall of shields opened before them. They were inside the square, in a crushing 
ring of dwarves in mail shirts and helmets, among the Redanian infantry, the cavalry of the 
Brugge and the light armoured condottiere. 
Julia Abatemarco – Pretty Kitty, Commander of the condottiere – who Aubry only now 
recognised – led him to a stocky dwarf in a helmet decorated with a red plume, sitting on a 
captured Nilfgaardian stallion, with a high saddle, with which he could see over the head of 
his soldiers. 
'Colonel Barclay Els?' 
The dwarf nodded his plume and looked at the blood that covered the messenger and his 
mare. Aubry involuntarily blushed. It was the blood of a Nilfgaardian who one of the 
condottiere had cut down right next to him. He did not even draw his sword. 
'Trumpeter Aubry...' 
'Son of Anzelm Aubry?' 
'The eldest.' 
'Ha! I know your father! What have you got for me from Natalis and Foltest, trumpeter?' 
'The center formation is in the threat of a breakthrough, the Constable commands you to 
move your men between Golden Pond and the bank of the Cholta... To support...' 
His next words were drowned out by an incredible din of shouting and neighing horses. 
Aubry realised how useless the orders he had brought were. How much these orders meant to 

Barclay Els, to Julia Abatemarco, to the dwarves with the banner with the crossed hammers, 
who were besieged from all side by Nilfgaard. 
'I was delayed...' he wailed. 'I've arrived too late.' 
Pretty Kitty sputtered like a real cat. Barclay Els gritted his teeth. 
'No, trumpeter,' he said. 'Nilfgaard has arrived too early.' 
 
*** 
 
'Congratulations ladies and myself, for a successful resection of the small intestine, 
colon, splenectomy and liver stitching. Take note of how long it took for us to remove the 
effects of what had been done to our patient in a split second in battle. I would recommend 
th9is material for philosophical reflection. Sew up the patient now, Lady Shani.' 
'But I've never done it, Mister Rusty!' 
'You have to start sometime. Sew red with red, yellow with yellow and white with white. 
And everything will be all right.' 
 
*** 
 
'What did you say?' Barclay Els said yanking his beard. 'What did you say, eldest son of 
Anzelm Aubry? Do you think we are idle here? We are under attack by Nilfgaard! It is not 
our fault that the men from Brugge were attacked!' 
'But the orders...' 
'I don't give a shit about the orders!' 
'If we do not close the gap,' he shouted over the noise, 'the Black ones will break through 
the front! They will break through the front! Opening our ranks, Barclay! You must march 
there!' 
'We'll be slaughtered before we can leave the pond! We'll die for nothing!' 
'So, what do you propose?' 
The dwarf furiously cursed, took off his helmet and threw it on the ground. His eyes were 
wild, terrible and bloodshot. Chiquita, frightened by the roar, pulled at the reins. 
'Fetch me Yarpen Zigrin and Dennis Cranmer! Hurry!' 
Two dwarves waded out of the bloodiest part of the battle; it was clear at first glance. 
Both were covered in blood. The chainmail of one had a deep cut that was sheered at a sharp 
angle. The other had his head bandaged with a cloth, which was soaked in blood. 
'Are you alright, Zigrin?' 
'I wonder,' sighed the dwarf, 'why everyone is asking me that?' 
Barclay turned and fixed his eyes on the Constable's messenger. 
'This is the eldest son of Anzelm. The Constable and the King have commanded that we 
go to the front to help them. Make sure you keep your eyes open, trumpeter. There will be 
something to look at.' 
 
*** 
 
'The plague!' cursed Rusty, backing away from the table waving his scalpel. 'Why? 
Damn it! Why must it be so?' 
No one answered. Marti Sodergren only spread her hands. Shani bowed her head and Iola 
sniffed. 
The patient who had just died, stared upwards, his eyes were fixed and glassy. 
 
*** 

 
'Strike, Kill! Kill these motherfuckers!' 
'At the same pace!' Barclay Els shouted. 'Walk the same way! Keep the ranks tight! Stay 
as a group! A group!' 
No one is going to believe me, thought the trumpeter Aubry. When I tell people about this, 
no one will believe me. The square is breaking out of a full siege... Surrounded on all sides by 
cavalry, torn, beaten and harassed... And this square progresses. Advancing at the same 
pace, in close formation, shield to shield. Advancing, treading on corpses, pushing 
themselves against the elite Ard Feainn division... They were advancing. 
'Keep pace! Walk the same way!' Barclay Els shouted again. 'Hold the ranks! The song, 
you whoresons, the song! Our song! Forward, for Mahakam!' 
From the throats of a thousand dwarves came the famous Mahakam song of war. 
 
Hooouuu! Hooouuu! Hou 
Wait, fellows! 
Soon you will go to hell! 
This whorehouse will crumble 
To its foundations! 
Hooouuu! Hooouuu! Hou 
 
'Strike, Free Company!' Between the huge roar of the dwarves, like a thin blade of 
mercy, emerged the acute soprano of Julia Abatemarco. The condottieri left the square and 
made a counterattack on the Nilfgaardian cavalry. It was a suicide action – for the 
mercenaries, lacking the protection of the halberds, pikes and shields of the dwarves were 
exposed to the power of the Nilfgaardians attack. The pounding, yelling and the squealing of 
horses made the trumpeter, Aubry, instinctively curl up in his saddle. Something struck him 
in the back. He felt his mare become caught in the general crush and was inexorably dragged 
into the terrible carnage and confusion. He firmly grasped the hilt of his sword, which 
suddenly seemed to him to be strangely slippery and cumbersome. 
 After a moment he was driven across the line of shields and started to chop and fight 
around him like a man possessed. 
'Again!' he heeded the wild cry of Pretty Kitty. 'One more strike! Hold on, boys! Kill, 
kill! For coins as golden as the sun! To me, Free Company!' 
A Nilfgaardian rider without a helmet and with the silver sun on his cloak broke in 
through the shields, standing in his stirrups, he hacked his axe into the dwarf who was not 
protected by a shield, he then opened the head of another. Aubry turned in his saddle and cut 
horizontally. The Nilfgaardian's head fell to the ground. At the same time the trumpeter 
received a blow to the head and fell from the saddle. The crowd of people around him 
prevented his immediate fall to the ground and for a few moments he hung between heaven 
and earth between the sides of two horses. Although he was full of fear, he was not in pain 
for long. As soon as he hit the ground, his skull was immediately crushed by hooves. 
 
*** 
 
After sixty-five years, when asked about those days, about the Battle of Brenna, about the 
square marching over corpses of friends and foes, advancing towards Golden Pond, the old 
woman smiled, further wrinkling her face, which was already wrinkled and dark as a prune. 
Impatiently – or maybe just pretending impatience, she waved her trembling, bony hand 
which was twisted with arthritis. 

'Neither side,' she lisped, 'could gain an advantage. We were in the middle and 
surrounded. They attacked us from all sides. We simply killed. They, us and we them... khe-
khe-khh... They us and we them...' 
The old woman controlled her coughing with effort. The listeners who were closest saw 
her wipe away a tear that was making its way through her maze of wrinkles and old scars. 
'They were as brave as us,' she muttered. 'Khe-khe... And we were just as strong and 
stubborn and fierce as they. Us and them...' 
She paused. For a long time. The listeners urged her, watching her smile at the memories, 
with its glory. Smiling at the blurred faces of those who survived through the fog of 
forgetfulness. Those that could not been killed by liquor, narcotics or tuberculosis. 
'We were equally brave,' end Julia Abatemarco. 'Neither side was strong enough to be 
braver. But we... We remained braver one minute more than they.' 
 
*** 
 
'Marti, I beg you, give us more of your wonderful magic! Just a little bit more! These 
fellows gut is unfortunately one big stew, garnished with lots of chain mail rings! I cannot do 
anything if he keeps flopping around like a fish out of water! Shani, damn it, hold the clamp! 
Iola! Are you asleep, dammit? Tighten! Squeeezze!' 
Iola, breathing heavily, swallowed saliva with effort. I'm going to faint, she thought. I 
can't stand it. I can't bear it any longer, the smell, the awful mixture of blood, puke, faeces, 
urine, intestinal contents, sweat, fear and death. I cannot endure it any longer, the constant 
crying, the howling, the bloody, slimy hands reaching towards me, as if I was their salvation, 
their refuge, their lives... I cannot stand the nonsense, what we are doing here. Because it is 
nonsense. On big, huge, meaningless nonsense. I cannot stand any more strain and fatigue. 
They continue to deliver more and more... I cannot stand it. I cannot stand it. I'm going to 
throw up. To faint. I will be ridiculed... 
'Bandage! Swab! Clamp! Not here! Be careful what you're doing! If you make another 
mistake, I'll smack you on your red head! Do you hear? I'll smack you on the head!' 
Great Melitele help me. Help me, goddess. 
'Look! He is improving! Another clamp, Priestess. Here, clamp the vessel! Well done, 
Iola, keep it up! Marti, wipe your eyes and face. And me too...' 
 
*** 
 
Where does this pain come from, thought Constable John Natalis. What hurts me so 
much? 
Oh. 
He unclenched his fists. 
 
*** 
 
'Strike!' cried Kees van Lo, waving his hands. 'Strike, Lord Marshal! Their line permits! 
If we do not hesitate to strike, we can break them! The Great Sun will crush them!' 
Menno Coehoorn bit his nails. He noticed that there were people watching him and 
quickly pulled his fingers out of his mouth. 
'Strike,' Kees van Lo repeated calmly. 'Nauzicaa is ready.' 
'Nauzicaa must be,' Menno said brusquely. 'Daerlan also needs to be. Lord Faoiltiarna!' 

The commander of the Vrihedd brigade, Isengrim Faoiltiarna, call the "Iron Wolf", turned 
to the marshal his face was distorted by a terrible scar that extended across his forehead, 
brow, the bridge of his nose and to his cheek. 
'You will strike there,' Menno Coehoorn pointed his baton. 'There, where the Temerian 
and Redanian lines come together. Right there.' 
The elf saluted. His disfigured face did not move, even his great deep eyes did not change 
expression. 
Our allies, thought Menno. Our allies. We have fought together. Against a common 
enemy. But I do not understand these elves at all. They are so strange. So different. 
 
*** 
 
'Curious,' Rusty tried to wipe his face with his elbow, but his elbow was also bloody. Iola 
hurried to his aid. 'Interesting,' said the surgeon, 'the patient was stabbed with a pitchfork... 
one of the teeth pierced his heart, oh, look here. The cardiac chamber is breached, the aorta is 
almost separated... But he was still breathing a little while ago. Here, on the table. On the 
battlefield he was pierced through the heart and he lived still on my table...' 
'You mean he died?' said a grim member of the cavalry. 'We were carrying him here in 
vain?' 
'It is never in vain,' Rusty held his gaze. 'But you are right, he has died. The patient has 
died. Take him away... damn! Come take a look girls!' 
Marti, Iola and Shani bowed over the dead soldier. Rusty lifted the eyelids of the dead 
man. 
'Have you ever seen anything like that?' 
The three began to tremble. 
'Yes,' all three answered simultaneously. They looked at each other in amazement. 
'I have already seen it,' said Rusty. 'He's a witcher. A mutant. That explains to us why he 
survived for so long... He was your comrade-in-arms? Or did you bring him here by chance?' 
'He was our companion, Sir Medic,' a second soldier, a small man with a bandage head 
said gloomily. 'From our squadron, as a volunteer. A master swordsman. His name was 
Coen.' 
'Did you know he was a witcher?' 
'We did. But he was a good friend.' 
'Ah,' Rusty sighed, looking at four soldiers bringing in another wounded in a blood-
soaked cloak. A young man judging by how thin he was. 'That's too bad... I'd like to do the 
autopsy on this respectable witcher. This would be a fine opportunity, I could even write a 
dissertation, O could take a look at his organs. But there is no time, remove him from the 
table! Shani, water. Marti, disinfectant. Iola... Hey, girl, are you crying again? What is it this 
time...' 
'Nothing, Mister Rusty. It is nothing. I will be alright.' 
 
*** 
 
'I feel lied to, cheated, robbed,' said Triss Merigold. 
Nenneke did not answer for a long time, she gazed from the terrace overlooking the 
temple's garden, where the priestesses and novices devoted themselves to the spring works. 
'You made a choice,' she said finally. 'You chose your path, Triss. Your own destiny. 
Voluntarily. This is no time to grieve.' 
'Nenneke,' the enchantress looked down. 'I cannot really tell you more that what I have 
said. Believe me and forgive me.' 

'Who am I to forgive? What benefits will you receive from my forgiveness?' 
'I can see,' Triss burst out, 'your eyes looking at me! You and your priestesses. I can see 
their eyes asking me the question. What are you doing here, sorceress? Why are you not there 
with Iola, Eurneid, Katje, Myrrha? Jarre?' 
'You're exaggerating, Triss.' 
The sorceress stared into the distance, into the woods beyond the temple's walls, to the 
distant smoke of fires. Nenneke was silent, thinking, she too was far away. Where the war 
was raging and bloody. She thought of the girls sent there. 
'They,' Triss said, 'refused me.' 
Nenneke was silent. 
'They refused me everything, 'Triss repeated. 'So clever, so reasonable, so logical... How 
could I not believe them when they explained that there are important and less important 
issues, and those that are less important should be given up without a second thought, to 
sacrifice them for the more important without a shadow of grief? That is does not make sense 
to save people that you know and love, because they are just individuals and the fate of these 
individuals are irrelevant to the fate of the world. That there is no sense for the struggle in 
defence of honour and ideals, for they are empty concepts? That the real battle for the fate of 
the world is somewhere else, and will be fought somewhere else? And I feel robbed. Robbed 
of the possibility of committing follies. I cannot go madly hurrying after Ciri to help her, I 
cannot run like crazy to save Geralt and Yennefer. Not only that, there is a war, which you 
have sent your girls... A war, that Jarre fled to and I am refused the possibility to even stand 
on a hill. To once again stand on a hill. Knowing this time, I'd made the right decision.' 
'Everyone has their decisions and everyone has their hills, Triss,' the priestess said 
quietly. 'Everyone. You cannot escape your own.' 
 
*** 
 
The entrance to the tent was busy. They brought another wounded soldier. Accompanied 
by several men. One of them, a knight in full plate armour, was shouting orders. 
'Hurry up, you damn slackers! Faster! Put him here, here! Hey you! Surgeon!' 
'I'm busy,' Rusty did not even look up. 'Please put him with the other wounded on the 
stretchers. I'll deal with him as soon as I'm done.' 
'You'll take care of him immediately, you fucking quack! This is the noble Count of 
Garramone himself!' 
'This hospital,' Rusty raised his voice, angry because stuck in the bowels of a wounded 
man was the broken tip of a crossbow bolt which had slipped out of his tweezers, 'has very 
little to do with democracy. You bring up mainly, barons, counts, marquises and earls. The 
ordinary wounded on the battlefield, nobody cares about. But everyone is equal here. At least 
on my table.' 
'What?' 
'Never mind,' Rusty said, again probing the wound with his tweezers, 'it doesn't matter if 
I was dragging a piece of metal from a serf or an aristocrat. All who lie on my table are equal 
to a beggar prince.' 
'What?' 
'Your Count must wait his turn.' 
'Halfling fuck!' 
'Help me, Shani. Take the other clamp. Beware of the artery! Marti, a little bit of magic, 
if I may ask. We have a bleeder.' 
The knight took a step forward, his armour and teeth gnashing. 
'I'll have you hanged!' he shouted. 'You'll hang, cursed non-human!' 

'Shut up, Papperbrock,' said the slightly wounded nobleman. 'Shut up, leave me here and 
get back to the fight.' 
'But, my lord! I cannot...' 
'That's an order!' 
From the other side of the canvas came the roar and rattle of battle, the snorting of horses 
and wild cries. The wounded in the hospital howled in different voices. 
'Please take a look,' Rusty raised the tweezers and demonstrated as he finally removed 
the tip. 'This was undoubtedly manufactured by a clever craftsman, to feed a large family. It 
shows amazing skill and dexterity. The way this gizmo sticks in the human intestines is 
ingenious. Love live progress.' 
He threw the bloody tip into a bucket and looked at the operating table, the wounded man 
had fainted dead away during his oration. 
'Sew him up and take him away,' he nodded. 'If he is lucky, he'll live. Bring me the next 
one in the queue. The one with the smashed head.' 
'He,' Marti Sodergren said calmly, 'has just released his place in line.' 
Rusty took a deep breath, without unnecessary comment walked away from the table and 
stood by the hurt Earl. His hands and apron were splattered with blood like a butcher. Daniel 
Etcheverry, Count of Garramone, paled even more. 
'Well,' said Rusty. 'It's your turn Count. Lift him up onto the table. What have we here? 
Oh, this joint can no longer be saved, it is broken. If left it will grind your bones to mush. 
Now this will hurt, but don't worry, it will be like in battle. Tourniquet, scalpel, saw. We will 
amputate, my lord.' 
Daniel Etcheverry, Earl of Garramone, who until now had bravely endured the pain, 
howled like a wolf. Before he could again clench his jaw, Shani, moving fast, thrust a piece 
of soft wood between his teeth. 
 
*** 
 
'Your Majesty! Lord Constable!' 
'Speak up, boy.' 
'The Volunteer army and the Free Company are nearing Golden Pond... The dwarves and 
the condottieri stand firm, though with severe losses. It is said that Adam "Adieu" Pangratt is 
dead, Frontino is dead and Julia Abatemarco is dead... All the commanders. The Dorian 
banner, which were sent to help were cut down to the man...' 
'Withdrawn, Lord Constable,' Foltest said quietly but clearly. 'If you ask me, it is time to 
fight a withdrawal. Let Bronibor's men stand against the Black ones. Now! Immediately! 
Otherwise they'll break through the army's front line, penetrate and end us all.' 
John Natalis didn't answer; he watched another messenger from afar who raced towards 
them on horseback, from which foam flew. 
'Take a breath man. Take a breath and pass on the message.' 
'They broke... They broke the front... Elves, the Vrihedd brigade... Lord de Ruyter 
conveys a message to your lordships...' 
'What is it? Speak!' 
'It is time to save your lives.' 
John Natalis look up to the heavens. 
'Blenckert,' he said flatly. 'Let Blenckert arrive. Or let the night come.' 
 
*** 
 

From all sides hooves thundered around the tent, the air was filled with screams and the 
whinnies of horses. A soldier burst into the hospital followed by two orderlies. 
'Run people!' shouted the soldier. 'Save yourselves! Nilfgaard has won! Defeat! Doom!' 
'Clamp!' Rusty said dodging blood that was spurting from the broken arteries of the 
patient on his operation table. 'Clamp! Swab! Here, Shani! Marti, do something about the 
bleeding...' 
Before the tent someone screamed like an animal. The scream trailed off to a grunt. A 
horse whinnied and something fell with a clang and a boom. A crossbow bolt ripped through 
the canvas, whistling, it flew to the opposite side of the tent, luckily too high to threaten any 
of the wounded lying on litters. 
'Nilfgaard!' the soldier shouted again, in a high trembling voice. 'Surgeon! Did you not 
hear what I said! Nilfgaard has broken our lines, and are killing everyone! Run!' 
Rusty took over from Marti Sodergren, taking her needle and began to sew. The patient 
lay motionless for a long time, but was still alive – his heart was beating. It was clearly 
visible. 
'I don't want to die!' shouted one of the wounded who were conscious. The soldier 
cursed and launched himself at the exit, he suddenly fell back, screaming, splattering blood, 
and collapsed to the ground. Iola who was kneeling beside the litter, jumped back. 
Suddenly there was silence. 
This is bad, Rusty thought when he saw who was entering the tent. Elves with silver 
lightning on their cloaks. The Vrihedd brigade. The notorious Vrihedd brigade. 
'They are being treated,' said the first of the elves, tall with a narrow face and blue eyes. 
No one answered. Rusty felt his hands shake. He quickly handed the needle to Marti. He 
saw Shani turn pale as chalk. 
'What is the meaning of this?' said the elf ominously. 'Why are there so many being 
treated? The wounded should be there in the field of battle, dying of their wounds. And you 
are healing them here? It does not make sense. It appears that we have different interests.' 
He bent and drove his sword into the chest of a wounded soldier closest to the door. 
Another elf crossed to a second wounded man and put his sword through him. The third 
wounded man was conscious and tried to stop the deadly stabbing with the thickly bandaged 
stump of his right arm. 
Shani screamed shrilly. It was a sharp cry that pierced. It drowned out the heavy, inhuman 
grunt from the crippled man. Iola fell across a stretcher and used her own body to protect 
another wounded. Her face was as white as the canvas dressing. The Elf's eyes narrowed. 
'Va vort, beanna!' he snapped, 'Get off, or I'll stab you both, Dh'oine!' 
'Get out of here!' Rusty found himself with three jumps in front of Iola and stood 
between her and the elf. 'Get out of my hospital, murderers! Out there you can kill each 
other! But get out of here!' 
The elf looked down. The small, stocky halfling, trembling in fear only reach just above 
his belt. 
'Blorde Pherian,' he hissed. 'Human slave! Get out of my way!' 
'Not on your life!' the surgeon's teeth chattered, but his words were strong. 
A second elf ran forward and pushed the halfling aside with a spear. Rusty fell to his 
knees. The tall elf violent jerked Iola off of the wounded man and raised his sword. 
He froze when he saw the black cloak rolled up under the the casualty's head with the 
silver flames of Deithwen division on it. And the distinction of Colonel. 
'Yaevinn!' An elf entering the tent shouted, his dark hair collected in a braid. 'Caemm, 
veloe! Ess'evgyriad a'dh'oine a'en va! Ess'tess!' 
The tall elf looked for a moment at the wounded colonel then at the water eyes filled with 
fear of the surgeon. Then he turned on his heel and left. 

From outside again came the sound of horses hooves pounding, screaming and the clash 
of iron. 
'There are the Black ones! Kill them!' shouted a thousand voices. Someone outside the 
tent again roared like an animal and then ended in a grunt. 
Rusty tried to stand, but his legs would not hear of it. His hands shook. 
Iola shook with strong spasms of weeping, curled up next to the stretcher of the wounded 
Nilfgaardian, in a foetal position. 
Shani was crying, without trying t hide the tears, but still held the clamps. Marti sewed 
quietly, only her lips moved in a silent monologue. 
Rusty was still unable to stand up. His eyes met the eyes of an orderly pressed into the 
corner of the tent. 
'Give me a sip of vodka,' he said with effort. 'Don't tell me you don't have any. I know 
you beasts always do.' 
 
*** 
 
General Blenheim Blenckert stood in hi stirrups and stretched his neck as her listened to 
the echoes of battle. 
'Form up the troops,' he ordered. 'Then trot over the hill. From what the scouts are 
saying, we will run directly into the right wing of the Black ones.' 
'We'll give them hell!' cried one of the young lieutenants, a youth with a thin, silky 
beard. Blenckert gave him aside long glance. 
'Bring the standard to the front,' he ordered and drew his sword. 'And give the battle cry, 
"Redania!" with all the power in your lungs! Let Foltest and Natalis's boys know that the 
relief is here.' 
 
*** 
 
Count Kobus de Ruyter had fought many battles in the last forty years. He had fought 
them since his sixteenth year of life. De Ruyter's had been soldiers for eight generations. The 
roar of battle, the rattle and crash of steel that was unbearable for everyone, Kobus de Ruyter 
perceived as a musical symphony. And at this moment he heard in the concert, new notes, 
chords and tones. 
'Hooray!' he yelled, waving his mace. 'Redania! Redania is coming! Eagles! Eagles!' 
Over the top of the hill from the north appeared riders. Above the head of the riders and 
horses fluttered a huge banner with the silver eagle of Redania. 
'Relief!' yelled de Ruyter. 'Here comes relief! Hooray! Strike at the Black ones!' 
The soldier from eight generations of soldiers noticed that the Nilfgaardians were turning 
in a counterattack and were moving to tighten their formation. He knew that it must be 
avoided. 
'Follow me,' he ordered and grabbing the banner from the hands of the standard bearer. 
'Follow me!' 
They attacked. They attacked like mad men, in a terrible but effectively way. They did 
not allow the Venendal division to form up against the Redanian cavalry. Their attack 
devastated the Nilfgaardians. The sky rocked with desperate screams. 
Kobus de Ruyter never saw or heard. A stray crossbow bolt struck him directly in the 
head. The Count slipped from the saddle and fell from his horse; the standard he held covered 
him like a shroud. 
Eight generations of de Ruyter's, who were following the battle from the other world, 
nodded with appreciation. 

 
*** 
 
'You could say that the Nordlings were saved that day by a miracle. Or a cluster of 
coincidences that nobody has been able to provide... It is true that Restif de Montholon writes 
in his book that Marshal Coehoorn made a mistake in assessing the strength and intentions of 
the enemy. That he took too much of a risk, splitting the Center Group Army and taking only 
cavalry units to the north. That he plunged recklessly into a battle in which he had the upper 
hand. That his reconnaissance was underestimated and therefore did not know about the 
Redanian auxiliary army...' 
'Cadet Puttkammer! The dubious "works" of Mister Montholon are not on the reading list 
of this school! And his imperial majesty has spoken out quite critically about this book! So 
cadet, do not quote it here. Indeed, I am surprised. So far your responses had been pretty 
good, even excellent, and suddenly you begin to clamour about miracles and clusters of 
circumstances, to let you end, allows you to criticize the military capabilities of Menno 
Coehoorn, one of the greatest leaders of the Empire. Cadet Puttkammer and the other cadet, if 
you want to pass the exam, listen to me and remember – At Brenna there were no miracles or 
coincidences, our defeat was caused by an extensive plot! Not only by hostile marauders, but 
also by subversive elements within our own ranks – various malcontents, cosmopolitans, 
renegades and traitors! An abscess, which later was burned with a white hot iron. But before 
that happened, those nasty traitors, betrayed their own nation and wove their webs and traps 
and built their networks. They tangled and betrayed Marshal Coehoorn, then deceived and 
misled him! They were rogues, without honour, conscience or simple...' 
 
*** 
 
'Motherfuckers,' wheezed Menno Coehoorn, looking through his spyglass at the right 
wing. 'Cursed motherfuckers. I'll find you, just wait and I'll teach you what it means to 
reconnoiter. De Wyngalt! Personally find the officer who was on patrol behind the hills to the 
north. And hang his entire patrol.' 
'As you command,' Ouder de Wyngalt, the Marshal's aide clicked his heels. Of course he 
did not know that Lamarr Flaut, the wanted commander from the reconnaissance patrol was 
now dying under the hooves of the Redanian cavalry, whose arrival at the fight he did not 
identify because of his own cowardice. De Wyngalt obviously could not know that for he 
himself only remained two hours of life. 
'How many are their Sir Trahe,' said Coehoorn, without taking his eye from the spyglass. 
'According to your estimate?' 
'About ten thousand,' the commander of the Seventh Daerlan replied dryly. 'Mainly 
Redania, but I also see the banners of Aedirn... There is also a unicorn, so Kaedwen as well... 
At least one squadron...' 
 
*** 
 
The Dun Banner galloped, horses hooves kicking up sand and gravel. 
'Forward, Dun Banner!' roared Centurion Digod, drunk as usual. 'Kill, kill! For 
Kaedwen! Kaedwen!' 
Damn, but I want to piss, Zyvik thought. I should have peed before the battle... Now there 
is no time. 
'Forward, Dun Banner!' 

Always the Dun Banner. When things go wrong, the Dun Banner. Who is sent as an 
expeditionary force to Temeria? The Dun Banner. Always the Dun Banner. And I want to 
piss. 
They arrived. Zyvik screamed, turned in his saddle and cut at a ear, shattering the 
shoulder and neck of a rider in a black coat with a silver star with eight points. 
'The Dun Banner! Kaedwen! Attack, attack!' 
With the pounding and crash of hooves and the scream of humans, the Dun Banner 
collided the Nilfgaardians. 
 
*** 
 
'De Mellis-Stoke and Braibant can handle this relief,' Elan Trahe, the commander of the 
Seventh Daerlan brigade said calmly. 'The forces are balanced, nothing can happen, that 
cannot be fixed. The left wing is strengthened Tyrconnel's division and the right wing has 
Magne and Venendal. And we... we can tip the balance, Lord Marshal...' 
'We will strike the breach opened by the elves,' Coehoorn an experience strategist said 
immediately. 'They will move over to the head and invoke panic. Yes, that's what we'll do, 
the Great Sun! To the banners, gentlemen! Nauzicaa and Seventh, your time has come!' 
'Long live the Emperor!' Kees van Lo yelled. 
'Mister de Wyngalt,' the Marshal turned away. 'Gather the attendants and the personal 
guard. It is the end of inactivity. We're going to attack together with the Seventh Daerlan.' 
Ouder de Wyngalt paled, but immediately caught himself. 
'Long live the Emperor!' he said, his voice barely wavering. 
 
*** 
 
Rusty cut, the wounded screamed and clawed at the table. Iola, fought bravely with the 
movements of his head, tightening the tourniquet. From the entrance of the tent came the 
sound of Shani's raised voice. 
'What are you doing? Have you all gone mad? We are trying to save the living here and 
you come here dragging the dead?' 
'But it is our own Baron Anzelm Aubry, Lady Healer! The commander of the squadron!' 
'He was the commander of the squadron! Now he's dead! You've managed to bring him 
here in one piece only by the fact that his armour is tight! Take him away. This is a hospital, 
not a graveyard!' 
'But, Lady Healer...' 
'Do not block the entrance! Oh, there carry in that one that still breathes. Or so it seems. 
Or maybe it is just gas.' 
Rusty snorted, but then frowned. 
'Shani! Come here!' 
'Remember, brat,' Rusty said through clenched teeth, leaning over crushed legs. 
'Cynicism is only permitted to a surgeon after the first ten years of practice. Do you 
understand?' 
'Yes, Mister Rusty.' 
'Take a scrapper and remove the periosteum... Damn we should anesthetize a bit... Where 
is Marti?' 
'Puking at the front of tent,' Shani said without a hit of cynicism. 'Like a cat.' 
'Sorceresses,' Rusty picked up a saw, 'instead of thinking of various terrible and 
powerful spells, they should focus on inventing one. So that they can cast it as a minor spell. 
For example, the aesthetic. Without the various problems and side effects like puking.' 

The saw grated on bone. The wounded soldier howled. 
'Tighten the tourniquet harder, Iola!' 
The bone finally gave way. Rusty put away the saw and then wiped his sweaty forehead. 
'Veins and vessels,' he nodded out of habit, but in vain, because before he even finished 
the sentence, the girls had already come over. He took the severed leg from the table and 
threw it in the corner, on a pile of other severed limbs. The wounded man had not howled or 
screamed for some time. 
'Unconscious or dead?' 
'Fainted, Mister Rusty.' 
'Great. Sew the stump, Shani. Bring in the next one! Iola go and check if Marti has 
finished vomiting everything.' 
'I am curious,' Iola said quietly, without looking up, 'how many years of experience do 
you have, Mister Rusty. A hundred?' 
 
*** 
 
After several minutes of forced march that raised a cloud of dust, the cries or the 
Decurion's and centurions finally stopped and the Vizima Regiment deployed into battle 
lines. Jarre panting and drinking in air like a fish saw Voivode Bronibor parading along the 
lines on his beautiful sorrel covered with armour plates, the Voivode was also dressed in full 
armour, and his armour was cover in blue though which made Bronibor look like a huge tin 
mackerel. 
'How are you, soldiers?' Bronibor shouted to his men. 
The ranks of pikemen responded with a roar that echoed like distant thunder. 
'You're making a lot of noise,' the Voivode said, turning his horse and walking back 
down the line, 'that means, you're doing well. When you're not doing well you whine and 
moan like old ladies. I can see from your faces that you are dying to enter the battle, that you 
dream to fight and cannot wait to take on the Nilfgaardians! Eh, soldiers of Vizima? Then I 
have good news for you! Your dreams will be fulfilled in an instant. In a short moment.' 
The Pikemen murmured again. Bronibor meanwhile arrived at the end of the line, turned 
his horse and slowly rode back. He spoke further and tapped his baton on his decorated 
saddle pommel. 
'You have swallowed dust, infants, marching behind the knights! Until now, instead of 
glory and booty, you have been smelling horseshit! You lack power and you almost did not 
reach the field of honour and glory even today, slackers. But in the end you still manage to 
get my heartfelt congratulations. In this country, whose name I have forgotten, you can 
finally show your worth as soldiers. That cloud you seen in the field is the Nilfgaardian 
cavalry, which aims to destroy our army by attacking the flank and pushing our forces into 
the swamp near the river, whose name I have forgotten, too. But you famous Vizima 
pikemen, will defend the honour of King Foltest and Constable Natalis by filling in the gap 
created by our ranks. You will close the gap with your breasts, halting the Nilfgaardians 
charge. Rejoice, eh, comrades? Are you bursting with pride?' 
Jarre, squeezing the shaft of his pike, looked around. Nothing pointed to the fact that the 
soldiers were happy with the prospect of the approaching fight, and if they were proud of 
their task, their pride was skilfully masked. Melfi, who was to his right, murmured a prayer to 
himself. To his left, Deuslax, an optimistic professional, sucked up snot, coughed and cursed 
to himself nervously. 
Bronibor turned his horse and straightened in the saddle. 
'I did not hear you!' he bellowed. 'I asked if you are fucking bursting with pride?' 

This time the pikemen, seeing no other way out, roared with a loud voice that they were 
proud. Jarre also roared. Just like everyone else. 
'Good!' the Voivode turned his horse to face the army. 'Now rally! Centurions, what are 
you waiting for? Form a square, front row kneeling, second row remain standing! Plant your 
pikes! Not by this side, you idiot! Yes I'm talking to you, hairy bastard! Move closer, 
shoulder to shoulder! Ah, now you look terrific! Almost like you are an army!' 
Jarre found himself in the second row. He pressed the butt of the pike into the ground and 
gripped it in fear in his sweaty hands. Melfi dimly repeated several words that were mostly 
related to the intimate details of the life of the Nilfgaardians, dogs, bitches, kings, constables, 
governors and all their mothers. 
The cloud in the field approached. 
'Don't waste your farts or chattering teeth now!' Bronibor cried. 'You can't use those 
noises to scare the Nilfgaardian horses! Let there be no mistake! Moving towards us is the 
Nauzicaa and Seventh Daerlan divisions, an excellent, well-trained army! They cannot be 
scared! They cannot be beat! You have to kill them! Raised those pikes higher!' 
From the distance came the sound of hooves, still far away but growing louder. The earth 
began to shake. In the cloud of dust, the sun sparkled off of flashing blades. 
'You are fucking lucky, men of Vizima,' the Voivode shouted again. 'You are not using a 
normal pike but a new type which is twenty feet long! While the swords of the Nilfgaardians 
are only three and a half feet long. You know how to count? They know how to count too. 
But they think that you will not hold and show your true nature, the nature of a coward. The 
Black Ones are counting on those pikes hitting the ground and you men scurrying across the 
field like rabbits and then they can cut you down comfortably without complication. 
Remember , shitheads, although fear can lend your feet speed, you cannot outrun a horse. 
Those who want to live, who want fame and booty, will resist! Resist viciously! Resist like a 
wall! And keep the ranks!' 
Jarre looked around. The crossbowmen that were behind the line of pikemen were already 
turning their cranks, within the square, halberds, javelins, spears and pitchforks were being 
lifted. The ground shook harder still. They could make out the black wall of the cavalry 
rushing towards them, and could make out individual riders. 
'Mama, mama,' Melfi repeated with trembling lips. 'Mama, mama...' 
'...Fucking whoresons,' Deuslax murmured. 
The rumbling increased. Jarre went to lick his lips but failed. His tongue had stopped 
moving, it had become strangely stiff and was a dry as sawdust. The rumbling grew louder. 
'Get ready!' Bronibor roared, drawing his sword. 'Put your shoulder to your neighbour! 
None of you go to war alone! The only cure for the fear you feel is that pike in your hands! 
Ready for the battle! Put the pikes into the chest of the horse! What must we do, soldiers of 
Vizima? That is a question?' 
'Resist!' the pikemen shouted in unison. 'Resist like a wall! Keep the ranks!' 
Jarre roared with everyone. From under the hooves of the approaching horses sprayed 
gravel and sand. The riders they carried howled like demons, waving their swords. 
Jarre held onto his pike, hid his head on his shoulder and closed his eyes. 
 
*** 
 
Jarre, without interrupting his writing, used the stump of his hand to wave away a wasp 
that was hovering over the inkwell. 
 
Field Marshal Coehoorn's plan failed – his counterattack against the flank was stopped 
by the heroic Vizima infantry and Voivode Bronibor, even though they paid a bloody tax. 

While the men of Vizima resisted the strong pressure from Nilfgaard on the left flank the 
enemy continued on the right. Soon our troops gained the upper hand on the right flank as 
well, where the dwarves and tough condottiere resisted Nilfgaard's grip. From our ranks 
arose a triumphant cry, and in the hearts of our fighters enter a new spirit. The confidence of 
the Nilfgaardian soldiers fled, their arms grew heavy and their strength ebbed. Some of them 
retreated, other still resisted, but now uncoordinated, in scattered groups, soon besieged 
from all sides. 
Then the enemy commander realised that the battle was lost. Surrounded by his loyal 
officers and knights, they bought him a new horse and pleaded with him to escape and save 
his life. But in the Field Marshal's chest beat a brave heart. 
'It is not right,' he cried, pushing away the reins being handed to him. 'Only a coward 
would flee from the field, where the empire has lost so many good men.' 
Then brave Menno Coehoorn said... 
 
*** 
 
'There is no way to escape,' said Menno Coehoorn soberly, looking around the 
battlefield. 'They have us surrounded.' 
'Give me your coat and helmet, sir' Captain Sievers wiped sweat and blood from his face. 
'Take my things and horse... Do not protest! You must survive, Lord Marshal. Your life, your 
skills are too valuable for the empire, irreplaceable... My Daerlan will hit the Nordlings, they 
will be attracted to us, and you can try to break out down there by the pond...' 
'I shall leave,' Coehoorn muttered, grabbing the reins given to him. 
'It is an honour,' Seivers stood up in the saddle. 'We are soldiers! Of the Seventh 
Daerlan!' 
'Good luck,' Coehoorn murmured, throwing a cloak with the silver scorpion around his 
shoulders. 'Seivers?' 
'Yes, Lord Marshal?' 
'Nothing. Good luck, kid.' 
'You too, sir. Behind me, men!' 
Coehoorn stared after them for a long time, until the point where Sievers' group with 
screaming and the pounding of hooves, collided with the condottieri. The condottieri 
outnumber them and other units rushed in to help. The Black cloaks disappeared among the 
condottieri gray and everything was enveloped in dust. 
A significant cough from de Wyngalt brought Field Marshal Coehoorn back to reality. He 
adjusted the harness and stirrups and mounted the stallion. 
'Let's go!' he ordered. 
At first they were fine. The Nordlings made a gap in their defences, as they concentrated 
their forces on doggedly attacking the last division of soldiers who had survived the 
destruction of the Nauzicaa brigade. The Marshal made his way out of the encirclement, but 
not without obstacles. The Nilfgaardians had to fight the light cavalry, who according to their 
colours where from Brugge. 
Coehoorn stopped pretending heroism, he just wanted to survive. He looked back at his 
private guards, struggling with the cavalry, he rode hastily with his assistants towards the 
river, flattening himself and clinging to his horse's neck. 
The way was clear on the other side of the river, behind some bent willows, was an empty 
plain, were he could see no armies. Ouder de Wyngalt also saw this and shouted with 
triumph. 
Too soon. 

The slow lazy current of the steam was the only thing that separated them from the green 
field. They came at it at a full gallop, after a couple of steps the horses sank up to their 
stomachs into a swamp. 
The Marshal flew across the stallion's head and landed in the mud. All around him horses 
and people screamed. Amidst the pandemonium Menno suddenly heard a different sound. A 
sound that signified death. 
The sound of arrows. 
He lunged towards the river. Cutting through deep mud. Beside him a wading aide fell on 
his face in the mud, the Marshal saw an arrow in his back. At the same time he felt a hard 
blow to his head. He staggered, but did not fall, because he was up to mid-thigh in the marsh. 
He wanted to scream, but only managed to croak. 
I'm alive, he thought with relief, still alive. A horse who was trying to free itself from the 
clutches of the stick mud had kicked the Marshal's helmet, smashing the plate and cutting his 
cheek, smashing his teeth and slashing his tongue... I'm bleeding... I can taste blood... But 
I'm alive... 
Again he heard the sound of a bow, the whistle of arrows and the crack of thunder as the 
bolts pierced through armour, the shouting, the neighing of horses and the splash of blood. 
The Marshal looked back and saw at the edge of the shooters a small, stock, squat figure in 
chainmail in helmets. Dwarves, he thought. 
The sound of ropes from the crossbows, the whistle of bolts. The neighing of terrified 
horses. The sound of screaming form people trapped in the mud and water. 
Ouder de Wyngalt turned towards the shooters and called to surrender, in a high, squeaky 
voice he begged for mercy and offered ransom. He grabbed his sword by the blade, the 
internationally known gesture and held it towards the dwarves. The gesture was not 
understood or wrongly understood – two arrows hit him in the chest so hard that the impact 
almost lifted him out of the mud. 
Coehoorn ripped the damaged helmet from his head. He knew the Nordling language well 
enough. 
'Mmmenno... Coehoorn...' he stammered, spitting blood. 'Mmarshal... Coehoorn...' 
'What is he spluttering, Zoltan?' one of the dwarves wonder aloud. 
'Who cares, fuck this dog and his chatter! See the embroidery on his cloak, Munro?' 
'A silver scorpion! Haaa! Guys, nail the motherfucker! For Caleb Stratton!' 
'For Caleb!' 
The strings rang. Coehoorn received one arrow in his chest, one in the groin and one 
below the collar bone. 
The Nilfgaardian Field Marshal fell back into the slush, knotweed and pondweed and 
disappeared under the weight of his armour. 
Who the devil is Caleb Stratton, he thought, I've never even heard of Caleb... 
Turbid water, dense with blood and mud from the Cholta River closed over his head and 
into his lungs. 
 
*** 
 
She left the tent to get some fresh air. Then she saw him sitting next to the blacksmith's 
bench. 
'Jarre?' 
He raised his eyes. In them was a void. 
'Iola,' he said with difficulty, his lips swollen. 'How are you...?' 
'What a question!' she immediately interrupted him. 'A better question is how did you 
get here?' 

'We brought our commander... Voivode Bronibor... He's hurt...' 
'But so are you! Show me your hand! Goddess! You're bleeding to death!' 
Jarre stared at herm but Iola suddenly began to wonder if he was seeing anything. 
'There was a battle,' said the boy, his teeth chattering. 'We must stand like a wall... firmly 
in the ranks... It was easier to carry the wounded to a military hospital... The severely 
wounded. Orders.' 
'Show me your hand.' 
Jarre gave a short cry, his teeth chatter as if in fever. Iola frowned. 
'It looks bad... Jarre, Jarre... Mother Nenneke will be angry... Come with me.' 
She saw him pale when he entered the tent. When he smelt the stench. He staggered. She 
steadied him. She saw him staring at the bloody table. At the man who lay there. At the 
surgeon, the little halfling who jumped suddenly, stomped his feet, cursed, swore and hurled 
his scalpel to the ground. 
'What the hell! Fuck! Why? Why?' 
Nobody answered the question. 
'Who was that?' 
'Voivode Bronibor,' Jarre said in a weak voice, looking straight ahead, his eyes blank. 
'Our commander... We stood in firm ranks. Order. Like a wall. And Melfi killed...' 
'Mister Rusty,' Iola said. 'This man is a friend of mine... He is hurt...' 
'He is still on his feet,' the surgeon said coolly. 'And this is expecting a trepanation. 
There is no room for favouritism...' 
At this point, Jarre with great sensitivity dramatically fainted and fell to the floor. The 
halfling snorted irritably. 
'Well, well, get him on the table,' he commanded. 'Ah, his hand. I wonder what is 
holding it on? Probably his sleeve. Iola, tourniquet. Harder! Do not dare cry here! Shani, give 
me the saw!' 
With a sickening screech the saw bit into the crushed bones of the elbow joint. Jarre woke 
up and shouted. Awfully, shrilly – but briefly. Once the bone gave way, he immediately 
fainted again. 
 
*** 
 
And so the power of Nilfgaard lay in the dirt and dust of the fields of Brenna, and the 
march north by the Empire was laid to an end. The losses for the Empire amounted to forty-
thousand killed and captured men. The foundation of Elite Knights fell. They died in captivity 
or went missing without a trace like such as the leaders, Menno Coehoorn, Braibant, de 
Mellis-Stoke, van Lo, Tyrconnel, Eggebracht and others, whose names have not been 
preserved in our archives. 
Brenna was indeed the beginning of the end. But it is worth writing that this battle would 
have been a small stone in the building and its importance would have been small if the fruits 
of victory had not been used wisely. Constable John Natalis did not rest on his laurels, but 
immediately went to the south. An unexpected counterattack led by Adam Pangratt and Julia 
Abatemarco surprised two divisions of the Third Army which were running late to relieve 
Coehoorn, and were routed nec nuntius cladis. At this new the rest of the Center Group Army 
crossed shamefully back over the Yaruga and escaped in a hurry, and Foltest and Natalis 
followed on their heels. The Imperials lost their baggage train and all their siege engines 
which they planned to use to conquer Vizima, Gors Velen and Novigrad. 
Like an avalanche rolling down from the mountains into the valley that collects more and 
more snow and gains power, so did the consequences of the Battle of Brenna provide more 
damage to the Nilfgaardians. The Verden Group Army was heavily afflicted by pirate raids 
and attacks from Skellige and King Ethain from Cidaris. When Commander Duke de Wett 
learned of the disaster at Brenna and the news reached him that Foltest and John Natalis had 
ordered a forced march, he immediately sounded a retreat and in panic fled across the river 
to Cintra and escaping significant losses to his troops, because word had gotten around 
about Nilfgaard's defeat and a new rebellion was rising in force in Verden. Only troops 
remained in the forts of Nastrog, Rozrog and Bodrog and after the Peace of Cintra they 
emerged with honour with banners aloft. 
Meanwhile, in Aedirn, the news of what happen at Brenna caused the antagonised Kings 
Demavend and Henselt to join together in arms against Nilfgaard's East Group Army, which 
was led by Duke Ardal aep Dahy into the Pontar valley, unable to resist the combined forces 
of the two kings. With the addition of the strength of the troops from Redania and the 
guerrilla squads of Queen Meve, who undertook combat actions in the rear of the enemy, 
they forced Nilfgaard to Aldersberg. Ardal aep Dahy prepared for battle, but due to fate he 
suddenly became serious ill, perhaps from spoiled food he got colic and diarrhoea and two 
days later died in pain. Demavend and Henselt, without waiting, launched an attack against 
Nilfgaard in Aldersberg, surely because of historical justice, Nilfgaard suffered a heavy 
defeat, though they still had numerical superiority. But daring, spirit and technique won out 
over blind, brute force. 
It is necessary to mention one other thing – namely that it is still unknown what 
happening at Brenna to Menno Coehoorn. Some believe that he fell with his soldiers and his 
remains, unrecognised were laid to rest in a common grave. Others speculate that he 
escaped, but from fear of the Imperial wrath never returned to Nilfgaard, but instead resorted 
to the Dryads in Brokilon and became a hermit in the forest. In remorse he lived for years in 
seclusion and separation and eventually died. 
Among ordinary people circulated the rumour that the famous Marshal in the night after 
the battle returned to the field at Brenna and could not stand looking at the tragedy and 
hanged himself from a aspen on a hill, which from that time on was called Gallows. At night 
it is said that his spirit wanders the battle field, lamenting and crying out 'Give me back my 
legions!'. 
 
'Grandpa Jarre! Grandpa Jarre!' 
Jarre looked up from the paper and pushed his glasses further up on his nose. 
'Grandpa Jarre!' screamed the high pitched voice of his youngest granddaughter, a bright 
and lively six year old, which, thank the gods, looked like her mother, Jarre's daughter and 
not his son-in-law. 
'Grandpa Jarre! Granma Lucienne told me to tell you that is enough writing for today and 
that dinner is on the table!' 
Jarre carefully place the reams of paper and put the cork into the inkwell. The stump of 
his hand throbbed with pain. The weather is changing, he thought, it's going to rain. 
'Grandpa Jarreeeeee!' 
'I'm coming, Ciri. I'm coming.' 
 
*** 
 
Before he was finished with the last of the wounded it was already past midnight. The last 
operation was performed under artificial light - lamps, candles and also magic. Marti 
Sodergren regained consciousness after overcoming her crisis and though deadly pale, stiff 
and unnatural in her movements, like a golem, she effectively performed spells. 
It was dark when they left the tent, the four of them laid flat on some canvas. The 
meadow was full of fires. Various fires - fires of campers, unstable fires, torches and 

firebrands. Through the night sounds resounded through the air, shouting matches, singing, 
chanting and cheering. 
The night was alive around them too with disjointed cries and the groans of the wounded. 
Supplications and sighs of the dying. They did not hear any of it. They were used to the 
sounds of suffering and dying, to them the sounds were ordinary, natural and blended into the 
night with the croaking of the frogs in the marshes by the River Cholta or the cicadas 
chirping by Golden Pond. 
Marti Sodergren was silent, leaning on the shoulder of the halfling. Iola and Shani, 
hugging, tightly, occasionally issued a laugh at something completely stupid. They all sat 
next to the tent, each drank a glass of vodka and Marti delighted everyone was one last spell - 
an intoxicating spell, usually used for tooth extraction. 
Rusty felt cheated the treatment - the drink that was bound by magic, rather than relax 
him, or reducing his weariness, it intensified it. Instead of granting oblivion, it reminded him. 
It seemed that the magical alcohol affected only Iola and Shani as it should. 
He turned and saw the moonlight on the faces of the two girls, bright and silvery with 
tears. 
'I wonder,' he said licking his dry and callous lips, 'who has won the battle. Does anyone 
know?' 
Marti turned to face him, but remained silent. 
The cicadas sang among the willows and alders by the pond, the frogs croaked, the 
wounded wailed, prayed and sighed. And died. Iola and Shani laughed amongst their tears. 
 
*** 
 
Marti Sodergren died two weeks after the battle. She had an affair with an officer of the 
condottieri Free Company. She tried this adventure as something temporary. Unlike the 
officer. When Marti, who liked changes, became involved with a cavalry officer, the 
condottiere, mad with jealousy, stabbed her. He hung for it, but they were unable to save the 
healer. 
Rusty and Iola died a year after the battle, in Maribor, the biggest explosion of the 
epidemic hemorrhagic fever, also known as the Scarlet Death, or - from the name of the ship 
which it was imported from - The Catriona Plague. 
All the doctors and most of the priests hurried to Maribor, along with Rusty and Iola. To 
heal because they were doctors. The fact that there was no cure for the Scarlet Death did not 
matter to them. Both were infected. He died in her arms, the strong, confident grip of her 
large, ugly, peasant hands. She died four days later. Alone. 
Shani died seventy-two years after the battle as a famous and respected retired professor 
of medicine at the University of Oxenfurt. Future generations of surgeons repeated her 
famous quote - "Sew red with red, yellow with yellow and white with white. And everything 
will be all right". 
Hardly anyone noticed, after delivering this quote she always secretly wiped away tears. 
Hardly anyone. 
 
*** 
 
Frogs croaked, cicadas buzzed, Iola and Shani giggled and cried. 
'I wonder,' repeated Milo Vanderbeck, a halfling, a field surgeon, known as Rusty. 'I 
wonder who won the battle?' 
'Rusty,' said Marti Sodergren. 'This is really the last thing I'd be interested in your place.' 
 

 
Some of the flames were high and strong, shining brightly and vividly, while others were 
small, shaky and trembling, and the flames darkened and they sank. At the end of the row was 
a tiny flame, one so weak that it was barely smouldering, barely alight and then it shimmered 
with great effort and almost extinguished. 
'Whose is that dying light?' asked the witcher. 
'Yours,' said Death. 
 
Flourens Delannoy 
Fairytales and Stories 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
Chapter Nine 
 
 
The plateau, whose far end was bathed in fog at the foot of a giant mountain, resembled a 
stone sea. It rippled forming mounds and curling crests that looked like the sharp teeth of a 
reef. The wreckages of ships contributed to that feeling. There were dozens of wrecks. The 
remnants of galleys, caravels and longships. Some gave the impression of only being here a 
short time, while others were no more than a few piles of boards and ribs and were hardly 
recognisable and had certainly been there for decades, if not centuries. 
Some ships were overturned and others were tipped on their sides and looked like they 
had been washed here by an immense storm or hurricane. Other ships gave the impression 
that they were still sailing the ocean. They stood straight, wedged between rocks, their masts 
towered proudly into the sky and the spars still flapped with ragged sails. They even had a 
ghostly crew – stuck in the rotten planks and tangled in the ropes where skeletons of dead 
sailors sentenced to an eternal voyage. 
Alarmed by the appearance of a rider and frightened by the sound of pounding hooves, 
from the masts, yards, ropes and skeletons broke swarms of black birds, cawing. The flock 
circled for a moment over the edge of the abyss, at the bottom of which lay a lake, gray and 
smooth as mercury. On the cliff, towering over the plain of wrecks, half hanging over the 
lake, embedded in cliff was a dark, gloomy castle. 
Kelpie recoiled, snorted, laid her ears back and looks suspiciously at the remains of the 
ships, skeleton and the whole landscape of death. The black birds had returned and once 
again settled on the broken masts, spars, bones, skulls and broken decks. The birds knew that 
they did not need to worry about one lone rider. 
'Easy, Kelpie,' Ciri said. 'This is the end of the road. This is the right place and the right 
time.' 
 
*** 
 
She appeared before the walls from nowhere, as if the wind blew her from the plain of 
ghostly wrecks. The sentries standing guard at the gate were the first to detect her presence, 
alerted by the cries of the jackdaws. Now they were shouting and gesticulating, pointing their 
fingers and calling to their comrades. 
When she arrived at the gate, there was already a crowd. Everyone stared down at her – 
the few who knew her or had seen her before, like Boreas Mun and Dacre Silifant, were 
greatly outnumbered by those who had only heard about her, those newly recruited by 
Skellen, mercenaries and common ravagers from Ebbing and the surrounding areas, who now 
looked down in amazement at the girl with the scar on her face and the sword on her back. 
The beautiful, black mare raised its head high, snorting and restlessly ringing its shoes on the 
cobblestones of the courtyard. 
The murmuring ceased. There was almost complete silence. The mare lifted her legs like 
a dancer; her shoes rang like a hammer on an anvil. It took a long time before the men 
crossed their path. One of them with a hesitant and frightened movement, reached out to 
grasp the reins. The mare snorted. 
'Take me,' the girl said loudly, 'to the master of this castle.' 
Boreas Mun himself did not know why he did it, but he held her stirrup and offered his 
arm. The other men held the snorting and struggling mare. 
'Do you recognise me, maiden?' Boreas said quietly. 'We have met.' 

'Where?' 
'On the ice.' 
She looked him directly in the eyes. 
'I did not notice your faces,' she said impassively. 
'You were the Lady of the Lake,' he nodded his head very seriously. 'Why have you 
come here, girl?' 
'Why? For Yennefer. And my destiny.' 
'Rather for your death,' he whispered. 'This is the castle Stygga. In your place, I would 
quickly flee. Perhaps there is still time.' 
She looked at him again. Boreas realised what that look meant. 
Stefan Skellen appeared. He looked at the girl for a long time with his arms crossed. 
Finally he gestured vigorously for her to follow him. She went without a word, escorted on 
all sides my armed men. 
'A strange girl,' Boreas said through clenched teeth, shivering. 
'Fortunately, she's not our problem,' Dacre Silifant said scathingly. 'I'm surprised you 
talked to her. That witch killed Vargas and Fripp and Ola Harsheim...' 
'The Owl killed Ola Harsheim,' Boreas cut him off, 'not here. She spared our lives on the 
ice, but she could have slaughtered us all like puppies. All of us. Even the Owl.' 
'Look at her,' Dacre spat on the cobblestones. 'She'll be rewarded for her mercy, by the 
sorcerer and Bonhart. You'll see, Boreas, what they'll do to her. Remove all her skin while 
she is alive, in thin strips.' 
'That's certain,' Boreas grumbled. 'Because they are scoundrels. And we are no better, 
because we are in their service.' 
'Did we have any other choice? No.' 
Suddenly, one of Skellen's mercenaries screamed, then another. Someone cursed and 
sighed. Another pointed silently. 
On the battlements, the corbels, the roofs, towers, parapets, gutters and gargoyles were 
covered as far as the eye could see in black birds. Quietly, without a squawk they came from 
the wrecked shipyard and now quietly, without a sound, sat and waited. 
'They sense death,' muttered one of the mercenaries. 
'And carrion,' added another. 
'We had no choice,' Silifant repeated mechanically looking at Boreas. 
Boreas looked at the birds. 
'Maybe it's time,' he replied quietly, 'to find one.' 
 
*** 
 
They climbed a wide stair case with three landings, passing a row of statues set in niches 
along a corridor, past a gallery and that surrounded a hall. Ciri walked boldly, without fear, 
neither frightened by the weapons or the escort. She lied when she said she did not remember 
the faces of the people from the frozen lake. She remembered. She remembered how Stefan 
Skellen, the one who was now leading her through the gloomy corridors of the castle, 
shivered and chattered his teeth on the ice. 
Now, when he looked back at her his eyes searing, she felt that he was still afraid. She 
sighed with relief. 
They entered a hall, high pillars supported the ribbed vault and large chandeliers hung 
from the roof like giant spiders. Ciri saw who was waiting there for her, Fear dug into her 
bowls like an iceberg, clenching it into a fist and twisting. 
Bonhart in three steps was in front of her. With both hands he grabbed her blouse, lifted 
her off the ground and pulled her in tightly before his pale, fish eyes. 

'Hell, he wheezed, 'must be really terrible if you prefer me.' 
She did not answer. She smelt alcohol on his breath. 
'Or maybe hell did not want you, you little beast. The devil's tower spit you out, in 
disgust after tasting your poison.' 
He pulled her closer. She turned away from his face in disgust. 
'You're afraid,' he gurgled. 'Rightly afraid. Here is the end of your journey. You'll not 
get away. Here in this castle, we will release the blood from your veins.' 
'Finished, Mister Bonhart?' 
She immediately recognised the voice that spoke. It was Vilgefortz, the wizard with 
whom she had met twice on the island of Thanedd. The first time while he was a prisoner in 
chains, and again when he followed her to the Tower of the Gulls. Then on the island, he had 
been very handsome. Now his face had changed, something had made him deformed and 
awful. 
'Excuse me, Mister Bonhart,' the sorcerer did not move from his throne-like chair, 'it is I, 
the lord of castle Stygga who should assume the pleasant task of welcoming our guest, the 
maiden Cirilla of Cintra, Pavetta's daughter, Calanthe's granddaughter and descendant of 
Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. Be welcome. Come closer, please.' 
The last words were not spoken under a mask of courtesy and ridicule. They were only 
threat and order. Ciri immediately felt that she would not be able to resist this command. She 
felt fear. Terrible fear. 
'Closer,' hissed Vilgefortz. 
Now she could see what had happened to his face. The left eye was significantly smaller 
than the right, blinking and squinting in a wrinkled eye socket. His gaze was terrible. 
'The posture of the brave with a trace of fear in her face,' the wizard said, cocking his 
head. 'You have my appreciation. If your courage does not come from stupidity. Immediately 
dispel any fantasies. As Bonhart has said, there is no escape. Either by teleport or with your 
special abilities.' 
She knew he was right. Earlier, she had told herself that even in the last moment she 
could run and hide among the times and places. Now she knew that this hope was just an 
illusion, a fantasy. The castle vibrated with hostile, alien magic, magic that penetrated her 
like a parasite crawling in her belly and her brain. There was nothing she could do. She was 
in the enemies hands. Powerless. 
It cannot be helped, she thought, I knew what I was doing. I knew why I had to come here. 
The other reasons were just false hope. Whatever will happen, will happen. 
'Good,' said Vilgefortz. 'A proper assessment of the situation. Whatever will happen, will 
happen. More precisely – It will be, as I decide. I wonder if you can guess, what I will 
decide.' 
She tried to answer, but before she could overcome the resistance in her shrunken and 
dried throat, Vilgefortz probed her thoughts and again and interrupted. 
'Of course you do, Lady of the Worlds. Lady of time and space. Yes, yes, my wonderful, 
I am not surprised by your visit. I know where you ran away to from the lake, and know what 
you have done. I know how you got here. The only thing I don't know is if your journey was 
long. Or the number of experiences delivered.' 
Again with a malicious smile her cut her off. 
'Oh, no need to respond. I know it was very interesting and exciting. I'm anxious to try it 
also. You do not know how I envy that talent of yours. I'll need you to share it with me, my 
wonderful. Yes, "need" is the right word. Until you share with me your talent, I will not let 
you out of my hands. 

Ciri finally realised that it was not only fear gripping her throat. The sorcerer magically 
throttled and strangled her. He mocked her and humiliated her, before the eyes of his 
followers. 
'Free... Yennefer,' she managed to get out, coughing with the effort. 'Free her... And you 
can do whatever you want with me.' 
Bonhart burst out laughing, Stefan Skellen also started to laugh dryly. Vilgefortz poke at 
the corner of his macabre eye with his little finger. 
'You cannot be so foolish as to think that, and so you will do what I want. Your offer is 
pathetic, so pathetic and ridiculous.' 
'You need me...' she lifted her head, though it cost her a lot of strength. 'To have a child 
with me. Everybody wants that, you do too. Yes, I am in your power, I came here on my 
own... You did not catch me, though you chased me halfway around the world. I came here 
on my own and I give myself to you. For Yennefer. For her life. Does this seem ridiculous? 
Then try to take me by force, take me the hard way... You'll see how fast you lose the urge to 
laugh.' 
Bonhart stood beside her in a jump, threatening her with a whip. Vilgefortz nodded 
almost imperceptibly, and slightly movement of his hand, but it was enough to knock the 
whip from the hand of the bounty hunter, and he stumbled like he had been hit by a wagon 
full of coal. 
'Mister Bonhart,' Vilgefortz said, rubbing his fingers. 'I noticed you still have difficulty 
adapting to the duties of being my guest. Try to remember that my guests my destroy 
furniture and artwork, steal small valuables and dirty the carpets and facility chambers. They 
cannot beat or rape other guests. The last, at least until the host has finished beating and 
raping and signs that you can begin. From what I've just said, you should be able to draw the 
right conclusions. As to you Ciri, I'll help you. You delivered yourself to me humbly and 
think that I'll do everything you please. And you think this is an extremely generous offer. 
You are wrong, because it is I who will do what I please with you. For example, I would, by 
way of revenge for Thanedd, like to take at least one of your eyes, but I cannot, because I'm 
afraid that you would not survive.' 
 Now or never, Ciri thought. She turned around and drew her sword, Swallow. Suddenly, 
the whole room began to spin, she fell and badly hit her knees. She lowered her forehead, 
almost touching the floor, struggling with the emetic reflex. The sword slipped from her 
numb fingers. 
Someone picked it up. 
'Now,' Vilgefortz drawled, leaning his chin on his folded hands as if in prayer. 'Where 
was I? Oh, yes, right, your offer. Life and freedom for your Yennefer... For what? For you 
voluntary surrender, willingly, without violence and coercion? I'm sorry, Ciri. What I need to 
do to you, without violence and coercion I simply cannot do.' 
He watched with interest as the girl coughed, wheezed and spat thick saliva to prevent 
vomiting. 
'Yes, yes,' he continued. 'That's what I'll do with you, you'll never surrender willingly, I 
assure you. And that is why your offer is not only pathetic and ridiculous, but also worthless. 
For this reason, I reject it. Grab her and take her to the lab!' 
 
*** 
 
The Laboratory was not much different from the one that Ciri knew of at the temple of 
Melitele in Ellander. It was brightly lit, clean, equipped with long tables with metal plates and 
shelves full of glass – flasks, test tubes, retorts, bowls and all sorts of other gadgets. 

As in Ellander it also smelled strongly of alcohol, ether, formalin and something else, 
something that inspired terror. Even there, in the friendly temple, opposite the friendly 
priestess Nenneke and Yennefer, Ciri felt fear in the laboratory. And there, in Ellander, no 
one dragged her into the lab by violence; nobody held her arms in an iron grip. There, in 
Ellander, was no steel chair, whose shape was sadistically quite obvious. There were no 
white-dressed and clean-shaven-headed types, no Bonhart, no Skellen, excitedly licking his 
lips. Nor were there Vilgefortz, with one good eye and one unnaturally small and terribly 
busy. 
Vilgefortz turned away from the table where he had been arranging terrible instruments 
for a long time. 
'You see, my wonderful,' he began, approaching her, 'you are for me the key to power 
and dominance. Not only in this world, which is doomed anyway, but over all worlds. Over 
the myriad of places and times that arose after the conjunction. Surely you understand, 
because you yourself visited some of these places and times.' 
Slowly he rolled up his sleeves and continued. 
'I'm ashamed to admit, but I'm terribly attracted to power. It's trivial, I know, but I want 
to be a ruler. A Sovereign, before who all will fall on this face and glorify him only because 
he exists, and worship as a god, if he deign to save their world from destruction – even if it is 
done on a whim. Oh, Ciri, my heart rejoices when I think about how I will generously reward 
the faithful and how I will cruelly punish the disobedient and rebellious. Whole generations 
will pray to me and beg me for pardon, mercy and forgiveness. Generations of whole worlds. 
Listen, Ciri. Do you hear those prayers? Protect us from famine, plague, fire, was and your 
wrath, O Almighty Vilgefortz...' 
He wiggled his fingers in front of her eyes and suddenly grabbed her face violently. Ciri 
cried out and tried to escape, but he held her firmly. Her lips trembled. Vilgefortz saw this. 
'Child of Destiny,' he laughed and from the corners of his mouth dripped foam. 'Aen Hen 
Ichaer, the Elder Blood... is now all mine!' 
He straightened abruptly and wiped his mouth. 
'Fools and mystics,' he said in his usual calm tone, 'tried to find the secret of your 
existence in ancient legends and prophecies, in your genealogy they searched for the origins 
of your gene – a legacy of their ancestors. They have confused the night sky with the stars 
reflected on the surface of the water. The mystics believed that the gene would continue to 
develop, thanks to the evolution of new possibilities and achieve greater power in your child 
or in your child's child. And around you grew a magical aura enveloping you in clouds of 
smoke from incense. They truth is, however, trivial, one might say organic – the important 
thing here is your blood. But in the literal sense, not the figurative sense of the word.' 
He raised a glass syringe from the table about a half foot long. It ended in a thin, slightly 
curved point. Ciri felt her mouth go dry. The sorcerer examined the instrument in the light of 
a lamp. 
'My assistance will help you undress and get you settled in the chair...Yes, that chair 
which you have been so curiously eyeing. You will have to remain for sometime in a rather 
uncomfortable position, until I use this tool to inseminate you. It will not be so bad, during 
the whole procedure you'll be under the influence of powerful elixirs that I will be injecting 
to ensure the proper implantation of the egg and to prevent an ectopic pregnancy. Don't 
worry, I've had experience, I've done it a hundred times. You may be a child of the Elder 
Blood, but I do not suppose that your fallopian tubes are somehow anatomically different 
from the tubes of ordinary girls.' 
Vilgefortz talked and talked, obviously relishing in his own words. 
'And now for the most important thing, you may be upset, you may be happy, but know 
that your child will not be born. Who knows, maybe it would have been a great chosen one 

with extraordinary abilities, the saviour of the world and the king of all the nations. However, 
no one can guarantee this and besides I do not intent to wait that long. I need blood. More 
specifically, placental blood. Once you have developed a placenta, I'll remove it. The rest of 
my plans and intentions, as you can understand, do not concern you, so there is no use in 
giving you useless information.' 
He made a theatrical pause. Ciri could not stop her lips from trembling. 
'And now,' the wizard gestured with a flourish, 'I invite you to your chair, princess.' 
'It would be worth it,' Bonhart sneered under his grey moustache, 'to see the look on that 
bitch, Yennefer's face. She deserves it.' 
'Of course,' Vilgefortz wiped bubbly foam from his lips again. 'Fertilization is a sacred, 
noble and solemn affair, in which the family should assist. And Yennefer is something like a 
mother to her. In all primitive cultures, mothers of the bride are present at this ritual. Quickly 
bring Yennefer here!' 
'With regard to the fertilization,' Bonhart said bending over Ciri, who the sorcerer's 
minions had already started to undress, 'would it not be possible to do it the old, proven way, 
Lord Vilgefortz? In accordance with nature?' 
Skellen snorted and shook his head. Vilgefortz frowned. 
'No,' he said frostily. 'It is not, Bonhart.' 
Ciri, as if only now realising the seriousness of the situation, cried shrilly. Once, twice. 
'Well, well,' the sorcerer clicked. 'With head held high and a direct gaze you entered the 
lion's den, my dear, and now you are afraid of a thin glass tube. That's a shame.' 
Ciri ignored his admonitions and screamed until the laboratory glassware rattled. 
And suddenly the whole of castle Stygga responded with cries of alarm. 
 
*** 
 
'Woe to us,' said Zadarlik scrapping a spear through the manure between the stones in the 
courtyard. 'Woe, woe.' 
He looked at his companions, but none of the guards were saying anything. Nor was 
Boreas Mun, who had stayed with the guards at the gate. By his own will, because he had not 
been ordered to stay. He could have gone with the Owl like Silifant, could have seen with his 
own eyes what was going to happen to the Lady of the Lake and what fate awaited her. But 
he preferred to stay in the yard, in the open, away from the rooms and halls of the keep, 
where they had led the girl. He was sure her screams wouldn't reach here. 
'Those black birds are an evil sign,' Zadarlik pointed to the jackdaws sitting on the walls 
and roofs. 'I get a bad feeling from the girl who came in on the black mare. This is ugly 
business serving the Owl, I tell you. Rumour has it that the Owl is no longer the imperial 
coroner, but an outlaw like us. That the Emperor has sentenced him to death. And when he is 
picked up, woe to all who are with him. Woe to us.' 
'Ay, ay,' said a second guard, a bearded man in a hat decorated with feathers. 'The stake 
awaits us! Not even the gods can stand before the imperial wrath.' 
'Do not worry,' a third guard casually waved his hand, who had only come to castle 
Stygga recently with the last group of mercenaries. 'The Emperor will not care about us, he 
has other worries. There is talk of a battle somewhere in the north. The Nordlings killed the 
Imperials, bled them properly.' 
'In such a case,' said another, 'it is good after all that we hold to the sorcerer and the Owl. 
Our kind are always better off with someone who has the upper hand.' 
'Sure,' said the newcomer. 'The Owl is the future. And we'll go up with him.' 
'You idiot,' said Zadarlik. 'Do you have sawdust in your head?' 

The black birds took flight. The flapping and squawking were deafening. They darkened 
the sky and began to circle the castle. 
'What the devil?' yelled one of the guards. 
'Open the gate please.' 
Boreas Mun suddenly noticed a strong smell of herbs – mint, sage and thyme. He 
swallowed and shook his head. He closed his eyes and opened them again. In vain. A skinny 
man, who looked like grizzled-looking tax collector, stood by his side and did not disappear. 
He stood smiling with his mouth closed. Boreas felt his hair standing on end, nearly lifting 
his cap. 
'Open the gate, please,' repeated the smiling man. 'Immediately. Believe me; it will be 
better for you.' 
Zadarlik dropped his spear which clattered on the ground. He stood frozen, his lips 
moving wordlessly. His eyes were empty. The others headed for the gate. They walked like 
unnaturally stiff puppets. They lifted the latch and opened both doors. Into the courtyard rode 
four riders. 
One had hair as white as driven snow and a sword in his hands which flickered like 
lightning. Behind him rode a blond woman who was drawing a bowstring. The third was a 
pretty young girl with a crooked sabre with which she slashed at Zadarlik. 
Boreas Mun picked up the dropped spear and raised it over his head. The fourth horseman 
loomed over him like a mountain. On his helmet stretched the wings of a bird of prey. His 
raised sword glistened. 
'Leave him, Cahir,' the white-haired man said sharply. 'Save time and blood. Milva, 
Regis, this way...' 
'No, not that way,' Boreas said, not knowing why he did so. 'Not that way... That way 
leads to a blind barbican. You have to go up the stairs to the top of the castle. If you want to 
save the Lady of the Lake... You must hurry...' 
'Thank you,' said the white-haired man. 'Thank you, stranger. Regis, did you hear? Lead 
the way!' 
After a moment there were just dead bodies in the courtyard. And Boreas Mun, still 
leaning on his spear. He could not release it. His legs were trembling. The jackdaws circling 
above castle Stygga were squawking and enveloped the towers and bastions like a black 
cloud. 
 
*** 
 
Vilgefortz listened to the report of the mercenary who had rushed in breathlessly, with a 
stoic and calm face. But his restless and blinking eye betrayed him. 
'Coming to her aid in the last minute,' he said grinding his teeth, 'I do not believe it. These 
things do not happen. Or only come to pass in bad plays in little theatres. Make me happy, 
my good man; tell me it is all a joke.' 
'I have not made any thing up,' the mercenary said indignantly. 'I'm telling the truth! A 
few people have broken... A whole gang...' 
'Okay, okay,' the wizard interrupted. 'It was a joke, Skellen, personally take care of this 
matter. You will have the opportunity to show me how much your army is really worth that 
you hired with my gold.' 
The Owl jumped up and waved his arms nervously. 
'Do not take this lightly, Vilgefortz,' he shouted. 'It seems you do not understand what 
threatens us! If someone is attacking the castle, they can only be Emhyr's people! And that 
means...' 

'It does not mean anything,' the sorcerer did not let him finish. 'But I know what you're 
doing. If my presence gives you courage, then you can stand behind my back. Let's go! That 
goes for you too, Bonhart!' 
Then he turned his terrible eyes on Ciri. 
'As for you, forget your pointless hope. I know well, who has so unexpectedly appeared in 
a theatrical attempt to save you. I assure you that I will convert this farce into a scene of 
horror. Hey, you!' He motioned for one of his minions. 'Put the girl in dimeritium, shut her in 
a cell with three bolts and do not open the door. Or it is your head. Got it?' 
'As you command, my Lord.' 
 
*** 
 
The entered a corridor, the corridor came to a large room filled with sculptures, a real 
lapidarium. Nobody was in the room, just a few servants that fled at the sight of them. 
They race down a flight of stairs. Cahir kicked down a door. Angouleme burst into the 
room with a war cry, her sabre knocking the helmet from an empty suit of armour that she 
had taken for a sentry by the door. When she realised her mistake, she broke out laughing. 
'Heh, heh, heh. Look...' 
'Angouleme!' Geralt shouted. 'Don't just stand there! Continue!' 
Opposite them was a door, beyond which they perceived silhouettes. Milva without 
thinking twice, tensed her bow and shot an arrow. Someone screamed and the door crashed 
shut. Geralt heard the sound of a bolt sliding home. 
'Come on, come on!' he shouted. 'There is no time to waste!' 
'Witcher,' Regis said. 'It makes no sense in running around blindly. I'll... I'll make a 
reconnaissance flight.' 
'Fly.' 
The vampire disappeared, as if the wind had carried him away. Geralt had no time to 
marvel. 
Again they met men, armed this time. Cahir and Angouleme rushed towards them 
shouting, but their opponents ran. More than anything, it seemed, thanks to Cahir's imposing 
winged helmet. 
They ran into a gallery surrounding an inner lobby. The door on the opposite side of the 
gallery was scarcely twenty paces away when the walkway on the opposite side was swarmed 
with people. Cries echoed. And arrows hissed. 
'Take cover,' cried the witcher. 
Arrows fell like a veritable hailstorm. The feathers hummed and the tips tore into the 
pavement raising sparks, and reduced the stucco walls to a fine powder. 
'Get down! Over the railing!' 
They fell to the ground, each with cover, behind decorative columns with carved floral 
motifs. However, not without injury. The witcher heard Angouleme scream. He turned and 
saw that she was holding her arm. From her sleeve blood was seeping. 
'Angouleme!' 
'It's nothing! The arrow pierced me cleanly!' the girl said, her voice trembling slightly, 
confirming what he had seen. If the tip had chipped a bone, Angouleme would have fainted 
from shock. 
The archers, launching their arrows from the end of the gallery, called for reinforcements. 
Some ran around the sides, looking for better shooting angles. Geralt cursed and calculated 
the distance to the archway. It did not look good. But staying where they were meant death. 
'We have to get the hell out of here!' he shouted. 'Listen up! Cahir, help Angouleme!' 
'They are going to mow us down!' 

'We have to go! There is no choice!' 
'No!' Milva exclaimed, rising with her bow in hand. She stood up and took a firing 
position. She looked like a statue, a marble Amazon with her bow. The archers in the gallery 
shouted. 
Milva released the bowstring. 
One of the archers flew backwards and smashed against the wall, and where he slumped 
to the ground, the red spot splashed to the plaster resembled an octopus. From around the 
gallery sounded a cry, a roar of anger, rage and horror. 
'The Great Sun...' Cahir whistled. Geralt squeezed his arm. 
'Let's go! Help Angouleme!' 
From the gallery, a shower of arrows fell upon Milva. The archer did not flinch when one 
arrow showered her in a cloud of plaster dust, or jump when marble fragments shattered 
around her. She quietly released the bowstring. A new cry and another archer collapsed like a 
puppet, spraying his fellows with brains and blood. 
'Now!' Geralt cried, watching the guards flee from the gallery, and fall to the floor, taking 
cover from the incoming missiles. 
Only the three bravest returned fire. An arrow hit the wall and dusted Milva's hair in lime 
powder. The archer blew a strand of hair from her eyes and readied her bow. 
'Milva,' Geralt called after Cahir and Angouleme had run to safety. 'Enough! Run!' 
'Just one more,' said the archer, with the feather of the arrow at the corner of her mouth. 
The bowstring hummed. One of the brave three screamed in pain, leaned over the rail and 
fell against the pavement of the patio. Seeing this, the other two faltered. They fell to the 
ground and huddled. Those who were rushing into the gallery were apparently reluctant and 
stayed in safe shelter from Milva's arrows. 
With one exception. 
Milva evaluated him on sight. Not very tall, dark complexion, brunette. With a glossy 
protector on his left forearm and a glove on his right hand. The girl saw that his compound 
bow was beautifully crafted, with a fitted handle and a curved staff as it tightened smoothly. 
She could she how tense the chord was as it crossed his swarthy face, she saw the arrow's 
feathers touch his cheek. She saw that he measured exactly. 
Milva readied her bow, strung it deftly, and aimed. The string came up to her face, one of 
the feathers grazed the corner of her mouth. 
 
*** 
 
'Harder, harder, Maria, to the mouth. Move your fingers on the bowstring so the arrow 
does not come loose from the notch. Let your hand rest on your jaw. Aim! Both eyes open! 
Hold your breath! Shoot!' 
The bowstring, despite her protector, painfully bit into her left forearm. 
Her father wanted to say something, but fell into a fit of coughing - dry, crisp, torturous. 
The cough was getting worse, thought Maria Barring as she lowered the bow. Worse and 
more often. He coughed yesterday, just as I aimed at a deer. And for lunch we had boiled 
cabbage. I hate boiled cabbage. I hate being hungry. And misery. 
The older Barring gasped and wheezed harshly. 
'You hit an inch from the center, oaf! A whole inch! I told you not to move or drop the 
bow! And you sit there wiggling as if someone had put a snail in your ass. And you spend too 
long aiming. You'll get weary hands, just shoot! Or you'll keep wasting arrows!' 
'I hit it! And not a whole inch, but barely half a span from the center!' 
'Do not argue! The gods punished me when they sent me you instead of a son and 
moreover, awkward as a boob!' 

'I'm not a boob!' 
'Well, show me. Shoot again. And learn from what I've said. No wiggling, like you're 
stuck in the ground. Aim and shoot without hesitation. Why are you crying?' 
'Because you scrutinize me.' 
'It's a father's right. Shoot.' 
 She tightened the bow. She was crying. He saw it. 
'I love you Maria,' he said softly. 'Never forget that.' 
She let go of the string, the feathers barely touched the corner of her mouth. 
Good,' said her father. 'Good, my daughter.' 
He began to cough in a terrible, rattling way. 
 
*** 
 
The black archer was killed on the spot. Milva's arrow struck him under the left arm and 
penetrated deeply, more than halfway down the shaft, shattering ribs, and smashing the lungs 
and heart. 
He fired a fraction of a second earlier and the red feathered arrow struck Milva low in the 
abdomen. It tore into her guts and severed an artery and shattered her pelvis. The archer fell 
to the floor as if hit by a battering ram. 
Geralt and Cahir cried out with one voice. Aware that the Milva was down, the archers in 
the gallery once again jumped up and fired a hail of arrows. One of the arrows hit Cahir's 
helmet. A second, Geralt swore, combed his hair. 
Milva left behind her a large, shiny trail of blood. In the place where she lay, in a blink of 
an eye, it had grown into a puddle on the floor. Cahir cursed, his hands were shaking. Geralt 
felt overwhelmed by despair. And rage. 
'Auntie!' howled Angouleme. 'Auntie, don't die!' 
Maria Barring opened her mouth, coughed horribly and spit blood down her chin. 
'I love you too, Dad,' she said clearly. 
And she died. 
 
*** 
 
Vilgefortz's shaved minions could not cope with the struggling and screaming Ciri. Some 
servants had to go to their aid. One received an accurate kicked that made him recoil, knees 
bent and clinging with both hands to his groin. 
But this only served to infuriate the others. Ciri received a punch in the neck and a slap in 
the face. She turned and another one gave her a kick in the hip and someone sat on her legs. 
One of the bald minions and a young man knelt on her chest, fingers tangling in her hair and 
pulling hard. Ciri howled. 
The minion also howled. Ciri saw blood drip from his bald skull, staining the white outfit 
with a macabre drawing. 
A second later the lab became a hell. The furniture as overturned with a crash. The 
strident pops and cracks from glasses bursting mixed with the hellish howls of the confused 
people. The decoctions, filters, elixirs, extracts and other magical substances spilled onto the 
tables and the ground, mixing and combining. Some, contacting, hissed and burst forth in 
clouds of yellow smoke. The room was immediately filled with a caustic stench. 
Amid the smoke and tears produced by the stench, Ciri looked in shock at the thing that 
moved about the laboratory. A black figure resembling a gigantic bat. She saw the bat hook 
the minions in flight and releasing them high in the air, yelling as they fell. Before her eyes, it 

snapped up one of the servants that was trying to get away and slammed it against a table, 
where he began to howl and shake, spraying blood on retorts, stills, beakers and flasks. 
A fluid from some broken container sprayed a lamp. It hissed, and the lamp exploded. 
Ciri had t dodge the fireball headed at her face. She clenched her teeth to keep from 
screaming. 
In the steel chair, which was prepared for her, sat a slender, gray-haired main in a black 
jacket. He gritted his fangs into the neck of a young minion, which rested on his knees and 
sucked his blood. The bald man groaned and his limbs twitched convulsively. 
Pallid blue flames danced on the tables. Flasks, retorts and stills exploded in the heat, one 
after the other. 
The vampire drew his fangs away from his victim's throat and look at Ciri with onyx 
black eyes. 
'The opportunity arises, he said, as if in explanation, 'when you just can't resist the drink.' 
'Do not fear,' he smiled where he saw her expression. 'Do not worry, Cri. I'm glad I found 
you. My name is Emiel Regis and I, although you may find it incredible, am a friend of the 
witcher Geralt. I came to this castle with him.' 
An armed mercenary ran into the burning lab. Geralt's companion turned his head towards 
him, hissed and bared his fangs. The mercenary screamed terribly. His scream soon faded 
into silence or the distance. 
Emiel Regis dropped the minion's body to the ground, stood up and stretched just like a 
cat. 
'Who would have thought?' he said. 'Such an insect, and yet he had great blood in him. 
This is what we call a - hidden quality. Let's go, Ciri, I'll escort you to Geralt.' 
'No,' Ciri said. 
'Do not be afraid of me.' 
'I'm not afraid,' she protested, bravely clenching her jaw so that he could not hear her 
teeth chattering in terror. 'No, because... Because Yennefer is imprisoned somewhere here. I 
have to find her as quickly as possible. I fear that Vilgefortz... Please, sir...' 
'Emiel Regis.' 
'Warn Geralt, good sir, that Vilgefortz is here. He is a sorcerer, a powerful sorcerer. 
Geralt has to be careful.' 
 
*** 
 
'You have to be careful,' Regis repeated his warning, staring at Milva lying motionless. 
'Because Vilgefortz is a powerful sorcerer. She went to free Yennefer.' 
Geralt cursed. 
'Come on,' he shouted, to wake up the spirits of his companions. 'Let's go!' 
'Let's go,' Angouleme stood up, wiping her tears. 'Let's go! We need to kick some ass!' 
'I feel in me,' the vampire hissed with a sinister smile, 'a power with which I could smash 
down this whole castle.' 
The witcher looked at him suspiciously. 
'I don't think so,' he said. 'But try and break through to the upper levels and stir it up and 
try and lure away some attention from me. I'll look for Ciri. She has not been treated well, 
vampire and you left her alone.' 
'She demanded it,' Regis explained quietly. 'In a tone that ruled out any discussion. I 
admit, I was surprised.' 
'I know. Go to the upper floors. And hold on! I will try to find her and Yennefer.' 
 
*** 

 
He found her. And it was fast. 
He met them out of the blue, totally unexpected when running around a corner in the 
corridor. He was met with a sight that made his blood boil and the veins stick out on the back 
of his hands. 
Yennefer was being dragged down the hall by a group of guards. She was ragged and 
bound in chains, but it did not prevent her from putting up a fight with her captors and swear 
at them like a porter. 
Geralt did not let them recover from their surprise. He slashed once and only once, a short 
economical movement of his forearm. A guard howled like a dog, turned on the spot and 
smashed his head into the plate armour statue standing in the hallway alcove; he slipped to 
the ground and smeared blood over the armour. 
His three companions released Yennefer and quickly backed away. But one grabbed the 
sorceress by the hair and held a knife to her throat just above the dimeritium collar. 
'Stay away!' he shouted. 'Or I'll slaughter her! I'm not kidding!' 
'Me either,' Geralt twirled his sword and looked the man in the eye. 
The man could not stand it; he released Yennefer and ran back to his companions. All of 
them had their hands on weapons. One of them took an antique halberd from the wall. They 
spread out into a semi-circular attack position. 
'I knew you'd come,' Yennefer said, straightening up proudly. 'Geralt, teach these ruffians 
what a sword in the hands of a witcher can do.' 
She raised her hands high, lifting the shackles. Geralt grasped Sihil in both hands, cocked 
his head slightly and took aim. He slashed. So fast that no one saw the blade move. 
The shackles fell with a clatter to the floor. One of the guards sighed. Geralt tightened his 
grip, moving his index finger under the hilt. 
'Don't move, Yen. Tilt your head slightly to the side, please.' 
The sorceress did not even blink. The sound of the sword striking metal was very faint. 
The dimeritium collar fell beside the chains on the floor. On the sorceress neck appeared 
on tiny drop of blood. She rubbed her wrists and laughed. She slowly turned to the guards. 
None of them held her gaze. 
The one with the halberd carefully as if afraid to break it, laid it on the floor. 
'With someone like that, he mused, 'the Owl can fight her in person. I value my life.' 
'We were ordered...' muttered another, retreating. 'We were ordered... The decision was 
not ours...' 
'We have never treated you badly, ma'am,' said a third, his mouth going dry. 'While in 
prison... Bear witness....' 
'Be gone,' said the sorceress. Liberated from the dimeritium, she stood erect with her head 
held proudly and in their eyes she appeared as a giantess. It seemed to them that her tousled, 
black mane touched the roof of the vaulted corridor. 
The guards fled. Hunched as if expecting an attack from behind, but none of them looked 
back. Yennefer returned to her normal size. She threw her arms around Geralt's neck. 
'I knew that you'd come for me,' she whispered, searching with her mouth for his lips. 
'That you'd come, even if...' 
'Let's go,' he said after a moment, gasping for air. 'Now for Ciri.' 
'Ciri,' she said and in her eyes for a brief moment blazed a fearsome purple fire. 'And 
Vilgefortz.' 
 
*** 
 

From around a corner a mercenary crossbowman jumped out, shouted and fired. He 
aimed for the sorceress. Geralt jumped as if driven by a spring and waved his sword. The 
arrow deflected and flew over the head of the archer, so close that he had to duck. He did not 
have time to stand again because the witcher jumped forward and skewered him like a carp. 
Further along in the hallway stood two other, who also had crossbows and fired them, but 
their hands were shaking so they did not find their mark. In the next moment, the witcher was 
among them and they both died. 
'Which way, Yen?' 
The sorceress focused, closing her eyes. 
'This way. After these steps.' 
'Are you sure that's a good way to go?' 
'Yes.' 
More mercenaries attacked them from just behind the corner of the hallway, near an 
ornate archway. There were more than ten and they were armed with spears and halberds. 
And they were determined and stubborn. Despite this, they went down quickly. 
Yennefer immediately struck one in the chest with a ball of fire. Geralt spun in a pirouette 
and fell among the others, his Dwarven Sihil flashing and hissing like a snake. When four 
more had fallen, then others fled, clanging and clattering along the corridors. 
'All right, Yen?' 
'Could not be better.' 
Under the archway stood Vilgefortz. 
'I'm impressed,' he said quietly. 'I'm really impressed, witcher. You are hopelessly naive 
and stupid, but your technique is really impressive.' 
'Your underlings,' Yennefer said calmly, 'just took off and left you. Give us Ciri and we'll 
leave you alone.' 
'You know, Yennefer,' sneered the wizard, 'that is the second generous offer I've had 
today? Thank you, thank you. And here is my answer...' 
'Look out!' Yennefer screamed and jumped. Geralt also jumped to the side at the last 
minute. A pillar of fire roared from the wizard's hands and burst through the place Geralt 
stood a moment before, hissing and burning the area. The witcher wiped soot and the charred 
remains of an eyebrow from his face. He saw Vilgefortz again raise his hand. He dodged and 
ducked behind a column. The boom popped his ears. The whole castle shook on its 
foundations. 
 
*** 
 
Echoes of the vast boom rolled through the corridors, halls and rooms of the castle. The 
walls trembled and rafters creaked. With a loud crack, a portrait with a heavy gilt frame fell 
from the wall. 
In the eyes of the fleeing mercenaries was an unspeakable fear. Stefan Skellen mollified 
them with a threatening glare and called them to order with a stern look and voice. 
'What is it? Report!' 
'Mister Coroner...' grunted one of them. 'This is terrible! They are demons... Every arrow 
kills one of us... Every slash sprays red blood... Death is coming for us... He butchered 
everyone! We lost ten men... Maybe more... Do you hear that?' 
The boom repeated, the castle trembled again. 
'Magic,' Skellen said through clenched teeth. 'Vilgefortz... Well, now we'll see who's 
who.' 
He approached another soldier. He was pale and covered with debris. For a while he was 
unable to bring himself to speak, when he finally spoke his voice trembled. 

'There... there... is a monster... Mister Coroner... Big black bat... Tearing at people's 
heads. Blood ran in streams! And he flew around and laughed... And his teeth!' 
'It could not carry the heads...' someone whispered from behind the Owl. 
'Mister Coroner,' Boreas Mun decided to speak. 'There are ghosts. I saw... young Count 
Cahir aep Ceallach. And he is dead.' 
Skellen looked at him but said nothing. 
'Lord Stefan...' Dacre Silifant mumbled. 'Who are we fighting here?' 
'They are not men,' moaned one of the mercenaries. 'They are demons from hell! A force 
no human can hope to stand against...' 
The Owl crossed his arms and stared at the mercenaries with an authoritarian and 
determined look. 
'Then,' he proclaimed loudly and clearly, 'we will not meddle in the conflict between the 
forces of hell! Let the demons fight with demons, sorcerers with sorcerers and vampires can 
crawl out of their tombs. We won't disturb them! We will stay here, quietly and await the 
outcome of the fight.' 
The faces of the mercenaries shone. The mood grew palpable. 
'These stairs,' Skellen said in a strong voice, 'is the only way out. We'll wait here. Let's 
see who tries to go down them.' 
From above came a terrible boom. They could smell sulphur and smoke even here. 
'It is dark in here!' the Owl shouted, loud and clear, to give encouragement to his troops. 
'Move, get some torches! We need light to shine on those stairs! Light a fire in those 
braziers!' 
'We have no fuel, Sir!' 
Skellen wordlessly pointed to the artworks on the wall in the hall. 
'The artworks?' a mercenary asked incredulously. 'We are to burn paintings?' 
'Why not?' said the Owl. 'What are you looking at? Art is dead!' 
The frames were broken down to chips and the images shredded. The well dried wood 
and the cloth saturated with varnish immediately caught flame. 
Boreas Mun watched. Already fully committed. 
 
*** 
 
A thunderous noise, a flash and the column from where they were hiding a moment 
before, crumbled apart. The core broke; the decorated column crashed to the floor and 
crushed a terracotta mosaic. From the side flew a hissing ball of lightning. Yennefer stopped 
it, uttering spells and gesturing. 
Vilgefortz walked towards them, his cloak billowing out behind him like dragon wings. 
'I'm not surprised by Yennefer,' he said walking. 'She is a woman, so she is 
evolutionarily lower and ruled by her hormones. But you, however, Geralt, you're not only a 
man who is inherently reasonable, but a mutant, exempt from emotions...' 
He gestured. Thunder. A flash. Lightning rebounded from Yennefer's shield. 
'But despite your better judgement,' continued Vilgefortz, passing fire from one hand to 
another, 'you demonstrate a remarkable consistency and know nothing. You constantly want 
to paddle against the current and piss into the wind. It had to end badly. Know that today, 
here; in castle Stygga, you have pissed into a hurricane.' 
 
*** 
 

Somewhere on the lower floors was furious fighting, someone shouted, screamed and 
then groaned in pain. Something burned, Ciri could smell the burning smell and smoke, a 
gust of warmer air was blown into her face. 
Something banged with such forces that even the roof trembled on its support columns 
and stucco showered from the walls. 
Ciri cautiously peered around a corner. The corridor was empty. She went quickly and 
quietly, flanked on both sides by statues in the wall niches. She had seen those statues before. 
In her dreams. 
She left the corridor and came face to face with a man armed with a spear. She stopped 
short, ready to jump and spin. But then realised that this was not a man but a woman with 
grey hair, skinny and bent. And she was not carrying a spear, but a broom. 
'There is a prisoner here,' Ciri said, 'a black-haired sorceress. Where is she?' 
The woman with the broom was silent for a long moment, moving her mouth as if 
chewing something. 
'And how would I know, my dove?' she mumbled finally. 'I'm here to clean.' 
She turned her back to the girl and began to sweep. 
'I clean and I clean and I clean,' she repeated to herself. 'And every time it just becomes 
dirty again. Just look at this mess, my dove.' 
Ciri looked. On the floor, she saw a wide, winding bloody smear. It ran for a few steps 
and ended at a wall, under a dead man. Nearby lay two more dead men, one twisted in his 
death throws, the second with outspread limbs. Next to them lay crossbows. 
'There is mess again,' she said taking a bucket and rag, dropping to her knees, she began 
to mop the floor. 'Such filth. And I used to get it clean. Will it never end?' 
'No,' said Ciri flatly. 'Never. Such is the way of the world.' 
The old woman stopped mopping, but did not turn her head. 
'I clean,' she said. 'Nothing more. By you, my dove, you should go straight and then left.' 
'Thank you.' 
The woman bowed her head lower and again wearily began to mop. 
 
*** 
 
She was alone. Alone and lost in a maze of corridors. 
'Lady Yennefer!' 
So far she had kept silent, fearing that yelling would attract Vilgefortz's people. But 
now... 
'Yennefeeeeeer!' 
It seemed to her that she heard something. Yes, definitely! 
She ran into a gallery and then into a great hall with high porches. Again she smelt the 
burning smell. 
Bonhart emerged like a spirit from a niche and hit her in the face with his fist. She 
stumbled, and he jumped on her like a hawk, grabbing her by the throat and pushing her 
against the wall with his forearm. Ciri looked into his pale fishlike eyes and felt her heart 
drop low in her chest. 
'I would not have found you, if you were not calling out,' he croaked. 'And how wistfully 
you called. Do you long for me so, my darling?' 
Still against the wall, his hand slipped behind her neck. Ciri tossed her head. The Bounty 
hunter bared his teeth. He slid hi hand over her chest, squeezing her breast, and brutally 
grabbed her crotch. The he released her and pushed, she fell to the floor. 
He threw a sword at her feet. Swallow. And she immediately understood what he wanted. 

'I would have preferred the arena,' he drawled. 'As a culmination, the final to your fine 
performances. The witcheress verses Leo Bonhart! Eh, people would pay to see something 
like that! Come on! Lift the steel and draw it.' 
She obeyed. But did not draw the sword from its sheath, she slung the belt over her 
shoulder so that the hilt was in reach. 
Bonhart took a step back. 
'I thought,' he said, 'that my old eyes would be comforted by what Vilgefortz was going 
to do to you. I was wrong. I need to feel how your blood flows down my sword. To hell with 
vile sorcery and sorcerers, destiny, prophecies and the fate of the world, defiling elder and 
younger blood. What does all this divination and witchcraft mean to me? Shit! Nothing can 
compare with the pleasure...' 
He did not finish the sentence. She saw his lips move and his eyes flash ominously. 
'I'll release the blood from your veins, witcheress,' he hissed. 'And then, before it gets 
cold, we will celebrate. You're mine. All mine. Raise your weapon!' 
The castle shook from a distant rumble. 
'Vilgefortz,' Bonhart announced gleefully, 'is making mincemeat of your valiant 
rescuers. Well, darling, draw your sword.' 
Flee, she thought, paralyzed with fear, flee to another place, to another time, far away 
from him. She felt shame. Run? Leave Geralt and Yennefer to their mercy? But common 
sense told her, dead I can do nothing to help them... 
She concentrated, pressed her fists to her temples. 
Bonhart immediately understood what was going on and rushed to her. But he reacted too 
late. 
There was a flash and a murmur in her ears 
I did it, she triumphantly. 
She immediately realised that the triumph was premature. She realised that she could hear 
angry shouts and curses. The failure was probably caused by the evil, paralyzing aura of this 
place. She had transferred, but only a small jump. She had not even gotten out of sight of the 
opposite end of the gallery. She was not far from Bonhart. But she was still beyond his reach 
and his sword. At least temporarily. 
Dogged by his roar, she turned and ran away. 
 
*** 
 
She ran along long, wide corridors, the dead eyes of the statues followed her. She turned 
once, then a second time. She wanted to get lost and confuse Bonhart; moreover, she was 
headed towards the sounds of battle. Where it was being fought, were her friends. 
She entered into a large, circular room, in the middle of which stood a marble plinth 
sculpture representing a woman with a veiled face, probably a goddess. The room opened 
onto two corridors, both quite narrow. She picked one at random. She chose the wrong path. 
'The girl!' roared one of the mercenaries. 'We have her!' 
There were too many of them to risk a fight, even in a narrow corridor. And Bonhart was 
probably close. Ciri turned and ran to escape. She entered the room with the marble goddess. 
And froze. 
Before her stood a knight with a large sword, in a black coat and a helmet adorned with 
the wings of a bird of prey. 
The city was burning. She could hear the crackling of the fire, could see the undulation of 
the flames, she felt the heat of the fire and the neighing of horses, the screams of the 
victims... Suddenly, there appeared a black bird flapping its wings, covering everything... 
Help! 

Cintra, she realised, returning to reality. And Thanedd island. He caught up to me here. 
He's a demon. I'm surrounded by ghosts and phantoms from my nightmares. Bonhart is 
behind me, and him in front. 
She could hear screaming and the pounding of boots. 
 The knight in the helmet with the feathers made a sudden move. Ciri overcame her fear. 
Swallow was yanked out of its sheath. 
'Do not touch me!' 
The knight stepped back and to Ciri's amazement she saw that his cloak hid a blond girl 
armed with a curved sabre. The girl slipped around Ciri and slashed with her sabre at a 
mercenary. The black knight, instead of attacking Ciri, swung a powerful slash and killed 
another mercenary. The other retreated into the hallway. 
The blond girl rushed to the door, but could not close it. She brandished her sabre 
threateningly and screamed, pushing the mercenaries from the portal. Ciri watched as one of 
the mercenaries stabbed her with a spear, she watched as the girl fell to her knees. She 
jumped forwards and swung Swallow, slashing the sword horrible across one the 
mercenaries, the Black knight ran forward. The blond girl, still on her knees, drew an axe 
from her belt and threw it, hitting one of the men in the face. Then she reached the door, 
slammed it and the knight bolted it. 
'Uff!' said the girl. 'Oak and iron! It will take them some time before they can get 
through that door!' 
'They will not waste the time, they'll seek another way,' said the black knight matter-of-
factly, the frowned suddenly, seeing the blood seeping from the girl's leg. The blond waved 
her hand, it was nothing. 
'We have to get out of here,' the knight took off his helmet and looked at Ciri. 'I am 
Cahir Mawr Dyffryn, the son of Ceallach. I came here with Geralt. To rescue you, Ciri. I 
know that it is unbelievable.' 
'I've seen unbelievable things,' Ciri said. 'You have come a long way... Cahir... Where is 
Geralt?' 
He stared at her. She remembered those eyes from Thanedd. Deep, blue, nice. 
'He is saving the sorceress,' he said. 'Here...' 
'Yennefer. Let's go.' 
'Yeah,' said the blond girl, knotting an emergency bandage around her thigh. 'We have to 
kick a few asses! For Auntie!' 
'Let's go,' repeated the knight. 
But it was too late. 
'Run,' Ciri whispered, seeing who was coming down the second passage. 'It is the devil 
incarnate. But he wants me and will not chase you... Go. Help Geralt...' 
Cahir shook his head. 
'Ciri,' he said mildly. 'I'm surprised at you. I cross the whole world to see you, and now 
that I found you, to redeem myself, to save you and defend you. And you want me to run 
away now?' 
'You don't know who you are dealing with.' 
Cahir tugged on his gloves, removed his coat and wrapped it around his left arm. He 
waved his sword and swung it until it whistled in the air. 
'I would know.' 
At the sight of the trio, Bonhart stopped. But only for a moment. 
'Oh,' he said. 'There was a rescue? Your friends, witcheress? All right. Two more or less, 
it does not make a difference.' 
Ciri suddenly thought of something. 
'Say goodbye to your life, Bonhart,' she cried. 'This is your end. Here is your match!' 

Undoubtedly she exaggerated. Bonhart caught the false note in her voice. He looked 
suspicious. 
'The witcher? Really?' 
Cahir swung his sword, standing in position. Bonhart did not waver. 
'Well, well, the witcher is younger than I believed,' he hissed. 'Look here, boy.' 
He opened his mail shirt. On his chest glistened three silver medallions – an eagle, a cat 
and a wolf. 
'If you're a real witcher,' the Bounty hunter gritted his teeth, 'know that soon your amulet 
will adorn my collection. And if you're not the witcher, you'll be dead before you can blink 
your eyes. It would be more sensible, in that case, to get out of my way and flee. I want this 
wench, I have nothing against you.' 
'Strong words,' Cahir said calmly. 'Let's see what else you can do. Angouleme, Ciri, 
run!' 
'Cahir...' 
'Go,' he said, 'help Geralt.' 
They ran off. Ciri helped the limping girl. 
'You asked for it,' Bonhart narrowed his pale eyes, as he did he twirled his sword. 
'Asked for it?' echoed Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach dully. 'No. It is my destiny!' 
They rushed towards each other and collided violently. The blades clattered against each 
other, the corridor carried the sound of steel banging on steel. 
'Not bad,' Bonhart gasped when they moved apart. 'Not bad boy. But you're not a 
witcher, that little bitch wanted to deceive me. It's your turn. Prepare to die.' 
'Strong words.' 
Cahir breathed deeply. The first encounter convinced him that his chances were slim. The 
old killer was too fast and strong. His only hope was that he rushed in order to chase Ciri, and 
clearly nervous. 
Bonhart attacked again. Cahir parried, cut, ducked, jumped, grabbed his opponent's wrist, 
pushed him to the wall and put his knee is his groin. Bonhart grabbed him by the face and 
slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of his head, once, twice, three times. Cahir 
blocked the third strike. He saw the flash of the blade and instinctively parried. 
Too slowly. 
 
*** 
 
There was a strict adherence to family tradition in the Dyffryn house that the body of a 
fallen relative was to be housed in the castle armoury and all the men in the family to visit 
and stay in an all day and night vigil. Women gathered in a remote wing of the castle, so as 
not to disturb the men, or distract them or interfere with their thoughts, with their sobbing and 
fainting spells. 
Among the nobility of Vicovaro, sobbing and tears were not seen even among the 
women. It was considered tactless and a great dishonour. But in the Dyffryn house there were 
different traditions and they would not change. And had no intention of doing so. 
At ten years old, Cahir's youngest brother, Aillil was killed in Nazair and was lying in the 
castle armoury, due to custom and tradition he was not considered to be a grown man. 
He was not invited to a gathering of men over the open coffin, but was not allowed to sit 
silent alongside his grandfather Gruffyd, his father Ceallach, his brother Dheran or his uncles 
and cousins. Understandably, he was neither allowed to mourn and faint in with his 
grandmother, his mother, his three sisters or his aunts and cousins. Small Cahir preferred 
running around the walls and fighting with his peers from families who came with their 
parents for the funeral, burial and ceremony. Cahir was devoted to making mischief by the 
walls. He fought with the other boys who claimed their older brothers fought the bravest at 
Nazair and not Aillil aep Ceallach. 
'Cahir! Come to me, my son!' 
On the porch stood Mawr, the boy's mother and her sister, Aunt Cinead var Anahid. His 
mother's face was red and swollen from mourning and it frightened Cahir. It shook him that 
even such a comely woman, such as his mother, could look like a monster because of crying. 
He firmly decided that he would never cry, ever. 
'Remember, my son,' Mawr sobbed, clutching her child to her breast so hard he could not 
breathe. 'Remember this day. Never forget who put your dear brother Aillil to death. It was 
those damn Nordlings. Your enemies, my son. Be sure to hate them. Never stop hating that 
damn nation of murderers!' 
'I will always hate, mother,' Cahir promised, somewhat surprised. First, his brother, Aillil 
had fallen fighting with honour. It had been a death worthy and enviable of a warrior. Why, 
then, spill tears for him? Second, it was no secret that Grandmother Eviva, Mawr's mother, 
came from the Nordlings. His father in anger more than once had called his grandmother 
"she-wolf of the North". Naturally, behind her back. 
But his mother now wanted... 
'I hate them!' he cried enthusiastically. I hate them all! And when I'm big and I have a 
real sword, I'll go to war and chop off their heads! You'll see, Mother!' 
His mother took a deep breath and began to sob. Aunt Cinead steadied her. 
Cahir clenched his fists, shaking with anger. Anger and hatred towards those who had 
wronged his mother, making her so ugly. 
 
*** 
 
Bonhart's blow smashed his temple, cheek and mouth. Cahir dropped his sword and 
stumbled; the Bounty hunter swung and slashed him between his neck and collarbone. Cahir 
fell at the feet of the marble goddess, his blood, like a pagan sacrifice, pooled at the base of 
the statue. 
 
*** 
 
Rumbling, the floor shook beneath their feet, a decorative shield fell to the floor with a 
crash. The corridor was filled with acrid smoke. Ciri wiped her face. The blond girl weighed 
on her like a millstone. 
'Faster... Run faster...' 
'I can't,' breathed the girl and sat down heavily on the floor. Ciri stunned, watched the 
blood oozing from her leg. She was pale as death. 
Ciri knelt and quickly took off her scarf and belt and tried to make a tourniquet. But the 
wound was large and deep, and very high on the leg, too close to the groin. The blood would 
not stop flowing. 
The girl grabbed her hand. Her fingers were as cold as ice. 
'Ciri...' 
'Yes.' 
'I am Angouleme. I did not believe... I did not believe that we would find you. But I 
followed Geralt... Because it was impossible not to follow. Did you know?' 
'I know. He is well.' 
'We found you... And I scoffed at Fringilla... Tell me...' 
'Don't talk, please.' 

'Tell...' Angouleme's lips moved slower and with more difficulty. 'Say, you're still a 
princess... In Cintra... I'll be rewarded, right? You'll make me... a Countess? Tell me. Do not 
lie... Can you? Tell me.' 
'Don't talk. Save your strength.' 
Angouleme sighed, suddenly leaned forward and rested her forehead on Ciri's shoulder. 
'I knew...' she said quiet clearly. 'I knew a whorehouse in Toussaint was a better idea.' 
It took a long time before Ciri realised that she was holding a dead girl in her arms. 
 
*** 
 
She saw him coming, watched by the dead eyes of the marble caryatids lining the arcade. 
She finally realised that escape was impossible that she could not escape him. That she would 
have to face him. There was no other choice. 
But she was still scared. 
She drew her weapon. Swallow's edge softly sang as she pulled it from the sheath. She 
knew this song. 
She retreated into a wide corridor, he followed her, holding his sword in both hands, 
blood trickled down the blade, heavy drops dripped onto the floor. 
'Dead,' he said, stepping over the body of Angouleme. 'Good. The boy also went down.' 
Ciri felt overwhelmed by desperation. Her fingers tightened painfully on the hilt. She 
retreated. 
'You lied to me,' Bonhart drawled. 'The boy had no medallion. But something tells me 
that here in this castle is someone wearing a medallion. There will be someone old Leo 
Bonhart will find near the sorceress Yennefer. But first things first, viper. You and me. And 
our engagement.' 
Ciri decided. She twirled Swallow and moved into position. She moved in a semicircle 
around him, going faster, forcing the Bounty hunter to rotate on the spot. 
'The last time,' he said, 'this trick was useless. Don't you know how to learn from your 
mistakes?' 
Ciri quickened her pace. The soft flowing movements of her sword were meant to 
disorientate and mesmerize. Bonhart turned and spun his sword. 
'This doesn't work on me,' he spat. 'I'm bored by it!' 
He took two quick steps to shorten the distance. 
'Music, maestro!' 
Bonhart jumped and launched an attack, Ciri dodged with a pirouette, jumped and landed 
safely on her left leg and immediately struck. Even before her blade hit Bonhart's, she was 
spinning around him and launching a smooth cut. She struck again, without expansion, from 
an unexpected and unusual bending of her elbow. Bonhart parried and used the momentum to 
attack from the left. Ciri saw it coming and with a slight bend of her knees she avoided the 
blade, but only by an inch. She went quickly on the attack, chopping and cutting. But Bonhart 
was waiting this time and deceived her with a feint. Unable to stop, and nearly off balance, 
Ciri was only saved by a lightning jump, but did not prevent the reach of Bonhart's sword to 
her shoulder. At first she thought that the blade had only cut through the padded sleeve, but 
after a moment she felt warm liquid run down her arm. 
The marble caryatids watched them with indifference. 
Ciri retreated, but he stayed behind her, stooped over and flicking his sword from side to 
side like a scythe. Like a Grim Reaper, Ciri had seen in a fresco in the temple. The dance of 
Death, she thought. He approaches like the Grim Reaper. 
She retreated. Hot, wet blood was running down her arm and onto her hand. 

'First blood to me,' he said, looking at the trail of drops, which had been left behind on 
the floor. 'Who will get the second, my princess?' 
She retreated. 
'Look closely. This is the end.' 
Bonhart was right. The hallway ended suddenly at an abyss. This wing of the castle was 
damaged and the floor had collapsed. Leaving of the structure – columns, timbers and beams. 
Downstairs on the ground was littered with debris. 
Ciri hesitated. She moved onto a horizontal beam, and kept retreating from him. 
Bonhart's eyes watched her every move. It saved her. Abruptly, he lunged at her, running 
across the beam, his sword flashing with cuts and feints. She knew his intention. One bad 
parry or any other error and she would lose her balance and fall down to the broken lower 
floor. 
This time Ciri was not fooled by his feints. Just the opposite. Bonhart skilfully cut from 
the right. Seeing her rival hesitate a split second, she launched a new blow to his right hand, 
so fast and strong that Bonhart rocked the beam. He would have fallen if not for his height. 
He stretched his left hand and caught hold of an overhead beam, keeping his balance. But he 
briefly lost his concentration. And for Ciri that was enough. She launched a powerful cut, 
straining her sword arm to its maximum length. 
He did not even flinch when Swallow's blade, with a whistle cut him from his chest to his 
left shoulder. He immediately struck back with such force that if Ciri had not jumped back, 
the blow would have split her in half. She jumped to an adjacent beam, falling into a kneeling 
position and raised her sword horizontally above her head. 
Bonhart looked at his shoulder and raised his left hand, down which already ran a scarlet 
trickle. He watched the drops falling down into the abyss. 
'Well, well,' he said. 'Now I know you can learn from your mistakes.' 
His voice trembled with rage. But Ciri knew him to well. He was calm, focused and ready 
to kill. 
He jumped onto her beam his sword twirling and rushed at her like a storm, running 
confidently, without hesitation, not even looking at his feet. The beam creaked and dust 
trickled downwards. He pressed her with blows, forcing her to walk backwards. His attacks 
were so continuous that Ciri could not jump or spin; she simply had to stop the blows and try 
to avoid them. 
She noticed a glint in his fish eyes. She knew what it was. 
He was trying to corner her against a pillar, pushing her like a spider under a trestle. 
Pushing her to a point where there was no escape. She had to do something. And suddenly 
she knew what. 
Kaer Morhen. The Pendulum. 
'You're not deflecting the pendulum, your deflecting yourself from it. You're intercepting 
its energy, which you need in order to deal a blow. Do you see?' 
'Yes, Geralt.' 
Suddenly, swift as an attacking snake, she counterattacked. Swallow hissed through the 
air and collided with Bonhart's sword. At the same time Ciri bounced and jumped to an 
adjacent beam. She landed, miraculously keeping her balance. She ran a few steps and lightly 
jumped again, back to the Bonhart's beam, landing behind him. He turned just in time, 
slashing almost blindly where she had landed. 
He missed her by a hair; the strength of the blow staggered him. Ciri struck like lightning. 
She slashed from a lunge and again fell to her knees. The slash was powerful and accurate. 
He froze with his sword at his side. She watched the long, straight, smooth cut on his 
jacket start to ooze blood. 
'You...' Bonhart shuddered. 'You...' 

He lunged at her. However, it was slow and clunky. She escaped by jumping back and he 
could not keep his balance. He fell to one knee, but it slipped off the timber because the wood 
was slick with his blood. For a moment he looked at Ciri. 
Then he fell into the abyss. 
She watched as he fell to the floor, raising a geyser of dust, lime and blood. She saw his 
sword fall a few feet away from him. He lay motionless, with arms flung wide, tall and thin. 
Badly wounded and quite vulnerable. But still scary. 
It took a while, but he finally moved and groaned. He tried to lift his head. He moved his 
legs. He moved his hands. He crawled to a pillar and leaned against its foot. He moaned again 
and probed his bloody chest and abdomen with both hands. 
Ciri jumped. She landed a few feet away in a crouch, as softly as a cat. She saw his fish 
eyes widen in fear. 
'You won...' he croaked, looking at Swallow's blade. 'You won, witcheress. It was a pity 
it was not in the arena... It would have been a spectacle...' 
She did not answer. 
'I gave you that sword, remember?' 
'I remember everything.' 
'Why me...' he moaned. 'You will not hurt or murder a defenceless man... You are too... 
noble.' 
She looked at him for a long time. A very long time. Then sent bent down, His fish eyes 
nearly popped out of their sockets. But she only tore the medallions from around his neck – 
the eagle, the cat and the wolf. Then she turned and walked towards the exit. 
He leaped at her with a knife in his hand, cunningly and treacherously. As quiet as a 
ghost. Only at the last moment, when his dagger was about to go into her back, did he 
scream. In it was all of his rage and hatred. 
She avoided the cowardly attacked with a half-turn and jumped away. She immediately 
shifted and struck, hard and strong, with her whole arm, strengthening the cut with a twist of 
her hips. Swallow whistled and cut with the tip of its blade. Bonhart clutched at his throat. Hit 
fish eyes bulged from their sockets. 
'I told you,' Ciri said coldly. 'I remember everything.' 
Bonhart stared at her wide-eyed. Then he fell. 
He fell backwards into the dust with billowed around him. He lay on his back, tall, skinny 
and a skeleton and squeezed his throat with all his might. But no matter how firmly he held, 
his life slipped out between his fingers and the layer of grey dust under his body grew wet 
and black. 
Ciri stood over him. Without saying anything. But ensuring that he saw. That this last 
image would be the image that accompanied him wherever he went. 
He looked at her with hardening eyes. He convulsively reared up, digging his heels into 
the ground. Then he gurgles like a funnel emptying. 
And that was the last sound he made. 
 
*** 
 
The stone walls trembled, beams cracked and glass poured from lead frames. 
'Watch out, Geralt!' 
He dodged again at the last minute. Brilliant lightning ploughed a furrow in the ground, 
the air hissed with colour, murderously sharp fragments from broken windows. Lightning hit 
the column, behind which the witcher hid. The column broke up into three parts. It broke 
from the roof and collapsed to the floor with a deafening crash. 

Geralt, lying flat on the floor, his head cupped in his hands, was aware of how miserable a 
shield this was from the falling debris. He prepared for the worst, but nothing happened. He 
jumped up and could see the glow of a magical shield around him, he realised Yennefer's 
magic had saved him. 
Vilgefortz threw a bolt of lightning at the other column behind which the sorceress was 
hiding. He roared furiously and a cloud of dust and smoke appeared. Yennefer deftly slipped 
between them and retaliated with her own flash of lightning, which bounced off of the wizard 
with no visible effect. He answered with a crushing blow that knocked Yennefer to the 
ground. 
Geralt wiped the dust from his eyes and attacked. Vilgefortz turned his eyes towards him 
and pointed his arm, and from his hands roared fire. The witcher instinctively swung his 
sword. The dwarven blade, covered with runes, shielded him and but the stream of fire in 
half. 
'Ha!' roared Vilgefortz. 'Impressive, witcher! What do you say to this!' 
The witcher said nothing. He was hit by an invisible battering ram, flew backwards, fell 
on the floor and slid until he found the base of a buttress. A pillar flew apart and again 
tumbled from the roof. This time he did not have Yennefer's protection. The heavy carved 
block struck him in the side, fortunately, not fully, but even so it hurt and completely 
paralysed him. 
Yennefer chanted spells and threw them at Vilgefortz one after another. However, none 
of them hit, and they all bounced harmless off of the wizard's magical shield. Vilgefortz 
suddenly spread his arms wide. Yennefer wailed in pain and started rising from the ground. 
The wizard clapped his hands together and his fingers started to shake and if squeezing a wet 
rag. The sorceress cried shrilly. And started to squirm. 
Geralt clenched his teeth in pain and rose to return to the fight. But he was overtaken by 
Regis. 
The vampire came flying from out of nowhere in the shape of a giant bat and rushed at 
Vilgefortz quietly. Before the sorcerer could raise a protection spell, Regis attacked his face 
with his claws; he missed the eye because it was so unnaturally small. Vilgefortz yelled and 
waved his arms in surprise. Yennefer freed from the spell, fell with a scream of surprise into 
a pile of rubble, blood spurting from her mouth and down her chin and breasts. 
 Geralt was already close. He raised Sihil ready to deal a blow. But Vilgefortz had no 
intention of surrendering. He pushed the witcher with a powerful surge of energy and 
attacked the vampire with a dazzling white beam, which passed through a stone pillar like a 
hot knife through butter. Regis deftly evaded the beam and returned to his usual form. He 
materialised at Geralt's side. 
'Be careful,' the witcher grunted, trying to discern what was wrong with Yennefer. 'Be 
careful, Regis...' 
'Be careful?' said the vampire. 'I? That's not why I came here!' 
With an incredibly long and fast leap he reached the wizard and grabbed him by the 
throat. His vampire fangs glistened. 
Vilgefortz scream with rage and terror. For a brief moment, it appeared this was the end 
of him. But it was premature. The wizard had an arsenal of weapons for every occasion. And 
against every opponent – even vampires. 
The wizard hands grasped Regis and heated up like red hot irons. The vampire screamed. 
Geralt also cried out, seeing that the wizard was literally tearing the vampire. He jumped to 
his friend's aid. But was too late. Vilgefortz pushed the vampire into a column, with both of 
his hands burning with white fire. 
Regis screamed. 

He screamed so loud that the witcher had to cover his ears with his hands. The remains of 
the windows shattered noisily. The column simply melted. And the vampire melted with it, 
turning into a shapeless stone. 
Geralt cursed furiously and desperately. He jumped forward and swung Sihil. The wizard 
turned and hit him with magical energy. The witcher flew the entire length of the hall, hit a 
wall on the other side and slid down it. 
He lay there gasping for air, like a fish out of water, wondering not what was broken, but 
what was whole. 
Vilgefortz walked towards him. In his hand materialised a six-foot-long iron rod. 
'I could reduce you to ashes with a spell,' he said. 'Or I could melt you into a glassy 
mass, as I did with that monster. But you, witcher, you deserve a different death. In combat. 
Maybe not a fair fight, but still.' 
Geralt did not believe he could stand up. But he did. He spat blood from his cut lip. He 
gripped his sword tighter. 
'In Thanedd,' said Vilgefortz, approaching him, twirling the rod, 'I settled for giving you 
a beating, in moderation, to serve as a lesson. But I can see that you have not learned 
anything, this time the beating with be thorough and I will not leave a healthy bone in your 
body. Nobody will be able to put you back together again.' 
He attacked. Geralt did not try to escape. He accepted the fight. 
The rod flashed and whirled, spinning around the sorcerer. Both opponents dodged 
around each other in a deadly dance. The rod flicked like lightning. Geralt managed to parry 
the hammering blow. Vilgefortz skilfully deflected. Each time steel meet steel it groaned 
pitifully. 
The wizard was quick and nimble like a demon. 
Geralt was fooled by a swing at his torso and a mock punch from the left – the opposite 
end of the stick hit him n the ribs. Before the witcher could get his wind back, he received a 
strong blow to the hip that almost knocked him down. He dodged a blow to the top of his 
head, but did not escape the stab at his stomach. He was thrown against the wall. He had 
enough presence of mind to fall to the floor. Just at the moment, the iron rod brushed his hair 
and it slammed into the wall raising sparks. 
Geralt rolled; the rod drew sparks from the ground right next to his head. A second blow 
came and hit his shoulder. The shock sent numbing pain and weakness down his legs. The 
wizard raised the rod. His eyes burned in triumph. 
Geralt clenched his fist around Fringilla's medallion. 
The rod fell. It struck the floor, a few inches from the witcher's head. Geralt rolled to the 
side and quickly got up on one knee. Vilgefortz jumped after him and swung again. Again he 
missed by inches. 
He shook his head unable to believe his eyes. He hesitated a moment. Then sighed, 
realising what was happening. His eyes twinkled and he leapt and swung his magical weapon. 
But it was too late. 
Geralt quickly slashed him across the stomach. Vilgefortz screamed, dropped the rod and 
took a few steps backwards. The witcher followed. Kicked him between the stumps of two 
columns and slashed his sword in a wide arc diagonally across the wizard's torso to his 
collarbone. Drawing blood. 
The wizard screamed and fell to his knees. He lowered his head and look at his chest and 
abdomen. For a long time he could not look away from what he saw. 
Geralt calmly waited with Sihil raised, ready to strike. 
Vilgefortz lifted his head and wailed shrilly. 
'Geraaaaaalt...!' 
The witcher did not let him finish. 

For a long time there was silence. 
'I didn't know...' Yennefer said, at last rising from the pile of rubble. 
She looked pitiful. Blood smeared her chin and chest. 
'I didn't know,' she repeated, meeting Geralt's puzzled gaze, 'that you knew how to cast 
spells of illusion. And you were able to confuse Vilgefortz...' 
'It was my medallion.' 
'Oh,' she said suspiciously. 'An interesting thing. But even so, we live thanks to Ciri.' 
'What do you mean?' 
'His eye. He did not regain full coordination. And often missed. Although I mainly owe 
my life...' 
She fell silent, looking at the remains of the melted column in which she could recognise 
the outline of a person. 
'Who was that, Geralt?' 
'A friend. I'll miss him very much.' 
'Was he human?' 
'He was an incarnation of humanity. How are you, Yen?' 
'Some broken ribs, a concussion, a bumped hip and a bruised spine. Otherwise, I'm great. 
What about you?' 
'I'm more or less the same.' 
Without emotion he eyed Vilgefortz head, lying exactly in the middle of the floor of 
mosaics. The sorcerer's little glassy eye watched them with mute reproach. 
'Nice view,' she said. 
'Nice,' he said. 'But it's not the first I've seen.' Can you walk?' 
'With your help, yes.' 
 
*** 
 
They met in a place where the corridors came together to form and arch. They met under 
the dead eyes of the statues. 
'Ciri,' the witcher said, rubbing his eyes. 
'Ciri,' Yennefer said, supported by the witcher. 
'Geralt,' Ciri said. 
'Ciri,' he answered, with a lump in his throat. 'I'm glad to see you again.' 
'Lady Yennefer.' 
The sorceress released herself from the witcher's arms and straightened with a 
tremendous effort. 
'What a sight you are, girl,' she said sternly. 'Look at yourself and how you look. Fix 
your hair! Don't slouch. Come to me.' 
Ciri walked, stiffly over to Yennefer. Yennefer smoothed her collar and tried to wipe the 
dried blood from her sleeve. She fixed her hair, revealing the scar on her cheek. She hugged 
her tightly. Very tightly. Geralt saw the sorceress's hands on Ciri's back. He saw the 
deformed fingers. He did not feel anger, grief or hatred. He felt only fatigue. And a great 
desire to be done with it all. 
'Mummy.' 
'My daughter.' 
'Let's go,' Geralt decided to interrupt, but only after a long time. 
Ciri sniffed noisily and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Yennefer scolded her 
with a look and rubbed one of her eyes. Surely she had gotten a speck of powder in them. The 
witcher watched the corridor from which Ciri emerged, as if expecting someone else to come 
from there. Ciri shook her head. He understood. 

'Let's go,' he repeated. 
'Yes,' said Yennefer. 'I want to see the sky.' 
'I'll never leave you again,' Ciri said dully. 'Never again.' 
'Let's go,' said Geralt. 'Ciri help Yen.' 
'I don't need help!' 
'Let me help you, mother.' 
Before them was a staircase. Bathed in smoke and at the bottom flaming torches and 
braziers with fire. Ciri shivered. She knew those stairs. They had appeared in her dreams and 
visions. 
Below armed men were waiting. 
'I'm tired,' she said. 
'Me too,' said Geralt as he drew Sihil. 
'I'm tired of killing.' 
'Me too.' 
'Is there no other way?' 
'No, there is no other way. Only those stairs. We have no choice, girl. Yen wants to see 
the sky. And I want to see the sky, Yen and you.' 
Ciri looked at Yennefer, who if not for the railing she was leaning against, would have 
fallen down. She pulled out the medallions she took from Bonhart. The cat she hung around 
her neck, the wolf she gave to Geralt. 
'I hope you know,' the witcher said, 'it's just a symbol.' 
'Everything is just symbols.' 
She drew Swallow from its sheath. 
'Come on, Geralt.' 
'Let's go. Stay close to me.' 
At the foot of the stairs Skellen's mercenaries were waiting for them, clutching weapons 
in sweaty palms. The Owl with a quick gesture sent the first wave of attackers. The stair 
thundered with the sound of heavy boots. 
'Slowly, Ciri, don't rush. Stay close to me.' 
'I know, Geralt.' 
'And calmly, girl, quietly. Remember, no anger, no hated. We have to get out of here to 
see the sky. And those who stand in our way, they die. Do not hesitate.' 
'I will not hesitate. I want to see the sky.' 
They reached the first landing without obstacles. The mercenaries fell back before them, 
amazed and surprised by their icy calm. But after a moment, three men leapt forward, waving 
their swords. They died instantly. 
'Attack all at once,' the Owl shouted from below. 'Kill them!' 
Three more attacked. Geralt stepped forward, feinted at one, and cut another's throat. He 
spun and Ciri dashed under his right arm. The girl slashed a second mercenary under his arm. 
The third tried to escape by jumping over the railing. He did not make it. 
Geralt wiped a few drops of blood from his face. 
'Calmly, Ciri.' 
'I am calm.' 
Three more approached. A flash of swords, screaming, death. 
Thick blood trickled down the smooth stone stairs. 
A mercenary with a jacket with brass rivets rushed them with a spear. His eyes shone 
with narcotics use. Ciri, with a quick step, deflected the spear and Geralt slashed at the man. 
He wiped his face. They continued to walk, without looking back. 
The second landing was close. 
'Kill them!' Skellen shouted. 'Kiillllll!' 

Heave footsteps on the stairs. The bright flashing of a blade, a shout, death. 
'Excellent, Ciri. But calmly. Less excitement. And stay close to me.' 
'I'll never leave you.' 
'Do not strike from the shoulder; you can do it from the elbow. Be careful.' 
'I'm careful.' 
The brightness of a sword, a cry, blood, death. 
'Excellent, Ciri.' 
'I want to see the sky.' 
'I love you.' 
'I love you too.' 
'Watch out. It's getting slippery.' 
The flash of blades, screaming. They walked, overtaking the blood pouring down the 
steps. They continued down the stairs of castle Stygga. 
One of the mercenaries slipped on the bloody stairs and fell straight beneath their feet. He 
wailed for mercy and covered his head with both hands. They walked around him without 
looking. 
They reached the third and lowest landing and no one dared cross their path. 
'Bows!' Stefan Skellen shouted from below. 'Bows and crossbows! Boreas Mun was 
supposed to bring crossbows! Where is he?' 
Boreas Mun – the Owl could not know – was already quite far away. He rode straight to 
the east, with his forehead to the mane of his horse, galloping as fast as he could. 
Of the other men who were sent to get crossbows, only one had returned. When he fired, 
his hands shook and his eyes watered from fisstech. The first bolt hit the railing. The second 
one did not even hit the stairs. 
'Higher!' the Owl ordered. 'Get closer, you idiot! Shoot up closer!' 
The crossbowman pretended not to hear. Skellen swore, grabbed the crossbow, jumped 
up the stairs, knelt and aimed. Geralt immediately covered Ciri with his body, but the girl 
slipped past him and as the rope from the crossbow twanged, she was already in position. She 
twisted her sword into the upper quarter and the bolt hit it so hard it hung in the air a long 
time before falling to the ground. 
'Very good,' Geralt muttered. 'Very good, Ciri. But if you ever do something like that 
again, you'll get a spanking.' 
Skellen threw the crossbow aside. He suddenly realised he was alone. 
All of his men huddled at the bottom of the stairs and none were in a hurry to climb. 
There even seemed to be less of them. Some had probably run off. For crossbows – no doubt. 
The witcher and witcheress, calmly, without hurrying, walked down the blood slicked 
stairs of castle Stygga. The stood close to each other, shoulder to shoulder, beguiling the fast 
movements of their swords. 
Skellen stepped back. And did not stop retreating until he reached the bottom. When he 
was surrounded by his men, he realised how far he had come. He cursed helplessly. 
'Men!' he shouted, but his voice broke. 'Forward! At them at once! Follow me!' 
'Get them yourself,' growled one of them and raised his hand covered in fisstech to his 
nose. The Owl swung at his and he sprinkled white powered all over his face, sleeve and coat 
lapels. 
The witcher and witcheress passed another platform. 
'When they get down here, they will be easier to surround,' Skellen encouraged. 'Men, to 
arms!' 
Geralt looked at Cir and almost screamed with rage when he noticed silver threads among 
her grey hair. He restrained himself. This was not the time for anger. 
'Be careful,' he said flatly. 'Stay close to me.' 

'I'll always be close to you.' 
'Down there it is going to be tricky.' 
'I know, but we'll be together.' 
'We are together.' 
'I'm here with you,' said Yennefer, walking down behind them on the slippery stairs. 
'Together! All together!' shouted the Owl. 
The men who had run for the crossbows, quickly returned. Without the crossbows, but 
with horror in their eyes. 
From the three corridors leading away from the stairs came the roar and banging of doors 
being broken down with axes. And the sound of heavy boots marching. All of a sudden from 
the three corridors flowed soldiers with black helmets, shields and the silver salamander on 
their coats. Skellen's mercenaries, intimidated by their shouts and threats, threw down their 
weapons. Those who hesitated were threatened with crossbows and pikes. After a thundering 
call to drop all weapons, everyone listened, because they could see the black soldiers were 
burning for an excuse to do something. The Owl stood on a step and crossed his arms. 
'The miraculous rescue,' Ciri said in a whisper. 
Geralt shook his head. 
The crossbows and spears were turned in their direction as well. 
'Glaeddyvan Vort!' 
Resisting was pointless. 
Soldiers swarmed out of the mouth of the corridors like an army of black ants and both 
the witcher and the witcheress were very, very tired. But they did not throw down their 
swords. They carefully placed them on the steps. Geralt felt the warmth from Ciri's arm and 
could hear her breathing. 
Above, avoiding the corpses and spilled blood, came Yennefer. She showed the soldiers 
her empty hands and sat down heavily on the step next to Geralt and Ciri. The witcher could 
felt the heat on his other arm. It is a pity it we could not stay this way forever, he thought. 
And he knew he could not. 
The Owl's men were tied up and led away. Suddenly among the soldiers appeared the 
high ranking officers, recognisable by the white plumes and the silver trim on their 
breastplates, and by the respect that the other soldiers gave them. 
The soldiers before one of those officers, whose helmet had more silver ornaments than 
any other, parted with exceptional respect. Almost bowing. 
He stopped in front of Skellen. The Owl – it was clearly visible even in the flickering 
light of the torches and braziers – went pale as a sheet of paper. 
'Stefan Skellen,' the officer said in a voice that rang metallically around the vaulted 
room. 'I'll see you in court. You'll be sentence for treason.' 
The Owl was led out, but his hands were not tied. 
The officer turned around. Upstairs a burning tapestry tore itself from the wall, and 
floated down like a large fiery bird. The red flames gleamed on the silver ornaments on his 
helmet and his lowered visor, forged like all the helmets of the black soldiers into the 
monstrous form of a jagged mouth. 
Now it's our turn, thought Geralt. He was right. The officer stared at Ciri. His eyes shone 
through the opening in his visor, watching everything without missing a detail. Her paleness. 
The scar on her cheek. The blood on her sleeve and hands. The white streaks in her hair. 
Then he turned his eyes to the witcher. 
'Vilgefortz?' he asked in a sonorous voice. 
Geralt shook his head. 
'Cahir aep Ceallach?' 
Another shake of his head. 

'A slaughterhouse,' said the officer, looking at the staircase. 'A bloody slaughterhouse. 
We'll he who lives by the sword... At least you spared the hangman some work. You have 
travelled a long way, witcher.' 
Geralt did not respond. Ciri sniffed again and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. 
Yennefer again scolded her with her eyes. The Nilfgaardian noticed it and smiled. 
'You came from the other end of the world,' he continued. 'For her and her. If only for 
that, something should be done. Lord de Rideaux!' 
'At your service, Your Imperial Majesty!' 
The witcher was not surprised. 
'Find us a discrete chamber, where I can rest and talk undisturbed with Geralt of Rivia. 
During that time, please provide all available services and convenience to both ladies. 
Obviously under the constant watch of guards.' 
'As you wish, Your Majesty!' 
'Geralt, follow me, please.' 
The witcher rose. He looked at Ciri and Yennefer, wanting to calm them, wanting to 
warning them not to try any nonsense. But it was not needed – they were both extremely 
tired. And resigned. 
 
*** 
 
'You have come a long way,' repeated Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep 
Morvudd, the White Flam Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. 
I don't know,' Geralt said calmly, 'yours appears to have been longer, Duny.' 
'You've recognised me,' the Emperor smiled. 'A lack of beard and a change of behaviour 
changed me completely. The people who had seen me at Cintra, and came to Nilfgaard to 
have audience with me, no longer recognised me. And you saw me only once, after all, 
sixteen years ago. I was so etched in your memory?' 
'I did not recognise you, you've actually change very much. I figured out who you are 
already, some time ago. Not without outside help and guidance, I guessed what role you were 
to play in family incest with Ciri. And in one of my nightmares I once dreamed of hideous 
incest. And here you are, in the flesh.' 
'You can hardly keep your feet,' Emhyr said coldly. 'And your impertinence is forcing 
you to be even weaker. I invite you to sit in the presence of the Emperor. I grant you the 
privilege of...life.' 
Geralt, with relief, sat. Emhyr stood leaning against a carved cabinet. 
'You saved my daughter's life,' he said. 'Several times. I thank you for that. On behalf of 
me and on behalf of my descendants.' 
'You leave me speechless.' 
'Cirilla,' Emhyr said ignoring the sarcasm, 'is going to Nilfgaard. In due time she will 
become the Empress. Like dozens of girls who become queens, without previously knowing 
her husband. Often times it without a good concept of the first encounter with their husband. 
Often they are disappointed by the first few days... and nights of marriage. Cirilla is not the 
first.' 
Geralt declined to comment. 
'Cirilla,' continued the Emperor, 'will be happy, like most of the queens I just spoke 
about. It will come with time. I will not demand love from her but will transfer it to the son 
that Cirilla will bear for me. Archduke and future Emperor. An Emperor, who will beget a 
son. A son who will be ruler of the world and who will save the world from destruction. So 
says the prophecy, whose precise content, only I know...' 
The White Flame thought for a moment and continued. 

'It is clear that Cirilla must never know who I really am. The secret must die. Along with 
those who know it.' 
'Sure' Geralt nodded. 'It could not be clearer.' 
'You cannot help noticing,' Emhyr said after a moment, 'the hand of fate in everything 
that has happened. All of it. Also in your actions. From the very beginning.' 
'Rather, I see the hand of Vilgefortz. It was he who sent you to Cintra, right? When you 
were an enchanted hedgehog? It was he who made Pavetta...' 
'You are shooting in the dark,' Emhyr interrupted abruptly, throwing his salamander 
cloak over his shoulder. 'You don't know anything. And you don't need to know. I did not 
ask you here to relate the story of my life. Nor to explain myself to you. The only thing you 
deserve is to ensure that the girl will come to no harm. I do not have any debts to you, 
witcher. No...' 
'You!' Geralt interrupted. 'You broke a signed contract. You broke your word! You lied! 
These are your debts, Duny! You broke your oaths as a prince, and you have debts as an 
Emperor. With imperial interest. For ten years!' 
'Is that all?' 
'That's it. Because that is all that is mine, nothing more. But no less! I had to introduce 
myself to collect the girl when she turned six. I waited on the agreed upon date, but you 
wanted to steal the child before that time. But the fates, of which you speak, have mocked 
you. During the next ten years you tired to fight destiny. Now it is your turn, you have Ciri, 
your own daughter, who you once shamefully deprived of parents and with whom you now 
want to shamelessly spawn incestuous offspring. You don't ask for her love? Pah, you don't 
have the right to her love! Between us, Duny, how can you look her in the eyes?' 
'The end justifies the means,' the Emperor said flatly. 'I do it for the future of the world. 
For its salvation.' 
'If you have to save the world like this,' the witcher lifted his head, 'this world would be 
better off disappearing. Believe me, Duny; it would be better to perish.' 
'You are weak,' Emhyr var Emreis said gently. 'Do not get excited, you look like you're 
about to faint.' 
He moved from the cabinet, pulled up a chair and sat down. The witcher's head was 
indeed spinning. 
'The Iron Hedgehog,' Emhyr var Emreis said calmly and quietly, 'was a way of forcing 
my father to cooperate with the usurper to the throne. After the coup, my father, the Emperor 
was deposed, imprisoned and tortured. He did not break; however, because the usurping 
Duke devised something else – before his eyes, he had a hired sorcerer turn his only son into 
a monster. The sorcerer also had a sense of humour. In our language, Emhyr means 
hedgehog. My father did not break then, so he was killed. I was driven by mockery and 
insults to the forest and chased by dogs. Fortunately they did not pursue me too fiercely, 
because the sorcerer botched the job, and from midnight until dawn I returned to human 
form, it saved my life. I was just thirteen years old. I knew several people on whose fidelity I 
could rely on. But even so, I had to flee the country. A crackpot astrologer called Xarthisius 
had read in the stars that the cure to the spell could be found in the North, beyond the 
Marnadal Steps. Later, as the Emperor, I gave him in payment for his services a tower and 
good equipment. At that time he had to work with borrow equipment. As for what happened 
at Cintra, you already know, and I won't waste your time. The truth is that Vilgefortz had 
nothing to do with it. First, I still didn't know him. And second, I still felt a deep aversion to 
sorcerers. To this day, I still do not like them. Oh by the way, when I reclaimed the throne, I 
apprehended the sorcerer who had served the usurper and who had turned me into a monster 
in front of my father. I, too, showed a sense of humour. The sorcerer's name was Braathens, 
which in our language is the same as the word "fried". Well, enough digression, back to the 

subject at hand. After the birth of Ciri, Vilgefortz secretly visited me in Cintra. He introduced 
himself as a confidant of those who remained faithful to me in Nilfgaard. He offered me his 
help and soon demonstrated that he could help. When I asked incredulously the motives for 
his actions, he did not deny relying on my gratitude. His plans were to win wealth and power, 
which the future Emperor of Nilfgaard would provide him – me. A mighty ruler who would 
rule half the world and raise offspring, who would dominate the whole world. The wizard 
bluntly admitted that he wish to achieve a high position. The he pulled out a scroll tied with 
snakeskin and acquainted me with the content. So I knew of the prophecy, I learned about 
the future fate of the world and I realised what I must do. And I have come to believe that the 
end justifies the means.' 
'Of course.' 
'Meanwhile, in Nilfgaard,' Emhyr ignored Geralt's comment, 'my business was on track. 
My supporter had gained more and more influence and had won a group of army officers and 
cadets over to our side and prepared for a coup. However, I was also imperative. In person. 
The rightful heir to the throne and imperial crown, the rightful Emreis of the Emreis lineage. I 
would be the flag of revolution. Between you and me, a lot of revolutionaries harboured a 
hope that that was all I would be. Those who are still alive still can't get over it. But I digress. 
I had to go home. It was time that Duny, Prince of Maecht and false prince of Cintra, claim 
his heritage. However, I had not forgotten about the prophecy. I had to go back there with 
Ciri. But Calanthe was very carefully looking over my shoulder.' 
'She never trusted you.' 
 'I know. I think she knew something about the prophecy. She would do anything to stop 
me and Cintra was in her power. It was clear, I had to go back to Nilfgaard, but in a way that 
no one would know that I was Duny and that Ciri was my daughter. Vilgefortz suggested a 
way. Duny, Pavetta and their child were to die, disappear without a trace...' 
'The faked sinking ship.' 
'Right. While sailing from Skellige to Cintra we had been driven by magic to the Sedna 
Abyss, where Vilgefortz pulled our boat into the maelstrom. I, Pavetta and Ciri would be 
close in a specially protected cabin and survive. The crew...' 
'They would not survive,' finished the witcher. 'Then began your journey over the 
corpses.' 
'It started a little earlier,' he said after a moment in a dully voice. 'When it became clear 
that Ciri was not on board.' 
Geralt raised his eyebrows. 
'Alas,' said the Emperor flatly. 'I underestimated Pavetta in my plans. This melancholy 
girl with downcast eye constantly watched me and my intentions. Just before leaving she 
smuggled our daughter back to the mainland. I raved. She, too. She had an attack of hysteria. 
In the scuffle... she fell overboard. Before I could jump in behind her, Vilgefortz pulled the 
ship into the maelstrom. I hit my head and lost consciousness. I survived only by a miracle, 
caught in the rigging. I woke up and bandaged up. I had a broken arm and...' 
'I wonder,' said the witcher coldly, 'what a man fells after murdering his wife?' 
'Worse than a mangy dog,' Emhyr replied promptly. 'I felt worse than a mangy dog, like 
a true scoundrel. Even the fact that I never loved her didn't change that. The end justified the 
means. However, I regret her death, I did not want it and I did not plan it. Pavetta died 
accidentally.' 
'You're lying,' Geralt said dryly, 'and it does not become an Emperor. Pavetta could not 
live. She would have denounced you. She would never let you do what you intend to do to 
Ciri.' 
'She would have lived,' Emhyr contradicted him. 'Somewhere else... Somewhere far 
away. There are many remote castles... perhaps Darn Rowan... I would not have killed her...' 

'Even for the purpose that justifies the means?' 
'Always,' the Emperor rubbed his forehead, 'you use a less drastic solution. There are 
always many options available.' 
'Not always,' said the witcher, looking into his eyes. Emhyr avoided his gaze. 
'Just what I thought,' Geralt nodded. 'Finish your story. Time is running out.' 
'Calanthe guarded her granddaughter like the apple of her eye. I could not even dream of 
kidnap... My relationship with Vilgefortz had cooled considerably, and I still held a grudge 
against other sorcerers... But the military and aristocracy were pushing me to go to war, 
encouraging me to attack Cintra. The nation needed living space and the vox populi would be 
considered this my test as Emperor. I decided to kill two birds with one stone. I would take in 
one fell swoop, Cintra and Ciri. The rest you know.' 
'Yes, I know,' said Geralt. 'Thanks for the chat, Duny. Appreciate you take the time, but 
let's not wait any longer. I am very tired. I've seen the death of friends who followed me here 
from the end of the world. To save your daughter. They did not even know her, except for 
Cahir; none of them had seen her. They came to save her because there was something in 
them that was worthy and noble. And for what? To find death. I don't think that is fair. And if 
anyone is interested, I'm not satisfied. Because a story in which good people die and the 
rogues live is bullshit. I have no more strength, Emperor. Call your men.' 
'Witcher...' 
'The secret must die along with those who know it, you said so yourself. You have no 
other way out. There are no other solutions. If I escape from prison I'll come for Ciri. It is the 
price I must pay and you know it.' 
'I know it.' 
'You can spare Yennefer's life. She does not know the secret.' 
'She,' Emhyr said seriously, 'would pay any price to take my Ciri. And to avenge your 
death.' 
'True,' said the witcher. 'I almost forgot how much she loves the girl. You're right, Duny. 
We cannot escape our destiny. I have a request...' 
'I'm listening.' 
'Let me say goodbye to both of them. Then I am at your disposal.' 
Emhyr stood up, walked to the window and stared out the dark portal. 
'I cannot deny this. But...' 
'Do not worry; I won't say anything to Ciri. It would hurt her severely, if I told her who 
you are. And I cannot hurt her.' 
After a long silence, Emhyr turned from the window. 
'Maybe I do have some debt to you,' he turned on his heel. 'Listen to what I have to offer. 
Once, long ago, when people still valued truth, honour and pride, they stood behind their 
words and feared only shame, it would happened that a person sentenced to death could 
escape humiliation by being handed a dagger or razor, and stepping into a tub of warm water 
and opening a vein. Do you think that...' 
'Command a tub to be filled.' 
'Do you believe,' the Emperor said quietly, 'that the Lady Yennefer would accompany 
you in the tub?' 
'I'm pretty sure. But I will have to ask. She has quite a rebellious nature.' 
'I know.' 
 
*** 
 
Yennefer agreed without hesitation. 
'Full circle,' she said, staring speculatively at her wrist. 'Uroboros is biting his own tail.' 

 
*** 
 
'I don't understand,' Ciri spluttered like an angry cat, 'I don't see why I should go with 
him! Why? Where are you going?' 
'My daughter,' Yennefer said quietly. 'This is your destiny. You'll see, it cannot be 
otherwise.' 
'And you?' 
'Us,' Yennefer looked at Geralt, 'a different destiny awaits us. Nor can it be otherwise. 
Come to me, my daughter. Hold me tight.' 
'They want to kill you! I will not allow it! After all, we have only just been reunited! This 
is not fair!' 
'He who lives by the sword,' Emhyr var Emreis said dully,' dies by the sword. They both 
fought with me and lost. But they lose with dignity.' 
Ciri, in three steps stood before him, Geralt silently gasped. He heard Yennefer sigh. 
Bloody hell, he thought, anyone can see it! Everyone in the Black Ones army will see it! The 
same attitude, the same sparkling eyes, the same gesture with her mouth, the way she crosses 
her arms over her chest. Fortunately she inherited her mother's ashen mane. But even so, 
those who aren't blind can see whose blood she is. 
'You,' Ciri said, directing an angry look at Emhyr. 'You won. And you think you won 
with dignity?' 
Emhyr var Emreis did not respond. He just smiled and eyed the angry girl. Ciri clenched 
her teeth. 
'So many dead, so many dead for this end? And they lost with honour? Death is an 
honour? Only a beast would think so. I have looked at death up close and have not become a 
beast. And it will never happen.' 
He did not answer. He looked at her, seeming to drink her in. 
'I know,' she hissed, 'what you are up to. What you want to do with me. I'll tell you now 
– I will not let you touch me. And if you do... I'll kill you. Even if tied up. When you sleep, 
I'll bite through your throat...' 
The Emperor with a quick gesture silenced the murmuring of his officers. 
'This will happen,' he drawled, not taking his eyes from Ciri, 'as intended. Say goodbye 
to your friends, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.' 
Ciri looked at the witcher, Geralt made a dismissive motion with his head. The girl 
sighed. She hugged Yennefer and whispered together for a long time. Ciri then approached 
Geralt. 
'A pity,' she said quietly. 'It seemed that everything was beginning to improve.' 
'It seemed to be so,' said the witcher. 
They embraced. 
'Be brave.' 
'He will not have me,' she whispered. 'He will not have me, don't worry. I will escape 
him. I know a way...' 
'Do not kill him. Remember, Ciri. You cannot!' 
'Fear not, I didn't even think about it. You know, Geralt, I've had enough of killing. 
There has been all too much.' 
'Too much. Goodbye, witcheress.' 
'Goodbye, witcher.' 
'Don't cry.' 
'That is easy for you to say.' 
 

*** 
 
Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard escorted the witcher and the sorceress to the 
bath chamber, to a large marble bathtub filled with warm, fragrant water. 
'Goodbye,' he said. 'Take your time. I'm leaving, but I will leave people her to carry out 
my orders. When you are ready, call out. A Lieutenant will bring a knife. But as I said, do not 
rush.' 
'We appreciate it,' Yennefer said seriously. 'Imperial Majesty?' 
'I'm listening.' 
'I would ask you not to hurt my daughter. I do not want to die with the notion that she is 
crying.' 
Emhyr was silent for a time. A very long time. He bowed his head and leaned on the 
door. 
'Lady Yennefer,' he finally said, an unreadable expression on his face. 'You can be sure 
that I will not hurt yours and Geralt's daughter. I have trampled the corpses of people and 
danced on the barrows of my enemies. I thought that was all I could look forward to. But 
your suspicions are unfounded - will never be able to hurt her. I know that now. Thank you to 
you both. Goodbye.' 
He walked out of the bath chamber and quietly closed the door. Geralt sighed. 
'Should we undress?' he looked at the steam rising above the tub. 'I'd hate for them to 
pull me out as a naked corpse...' 
'I imagine it does not matter how they pull us out,' Yennefer pulled off her shoes and 
socks and with quick movement began to unbutton her dress. 'Even though this is my last 
hour, I will not bathe dressed.' 
She pulled her shirt over her head and jumped into the tub, splashing the water. 
'Well, Geralt? Why are you standing like a statue?' 
'Because I had forgotten how beautiful you are.' 
'You're very forgetful. Now, get in the water.' 
When he sat down beside her, she immediately threw her arms around his neck. He kissed 
her, stroking her waist above the water and under it. 
'Is this,' he asked for the record, 'the right time?' 
'For this,' she murmured, dipping one hand under the water and touching him, 'every 
time is appropriate. Emhyr repeated twice that we were not to rush. What better way to spend 
the last few moments we have been given? Why mourn and lament? It's not worth it. Why 
examine our consciences? It is stupid and trivial.' 
'That's not what I meant.' 
'Then what?' 
'If the water cools down,' he murmured caressing her breasts, 'then the cuts will be 
painful.' 
'For pleasure,' Yennefer dipped a second hand below the water, 'it is worth paying a little 
pain. Are you afraid of pain?' 
'No.' 
'Me neither. Come, sit on the edge. I love you, but I will not, damn it, dive.' 
 
*** 
 
'Oh, oh...' said Yennefer tilting her head so that he wet hair arched over her back. 
'Wow...' 
 
*** 

 
'I love you, Yen.' 
'I love you too, Geralt.' 
'It's time. Let's call.' 
'Let's call.' 
The called out. First the witcher called and then the sorceress after him. When they 
received no response, the shouted in unison. 
'We are ready! Give us the knife! Hey! Damn it! The water is cooling!' 
'Then get out of it,' Ciri said, peering into the bath chamber. 'They're all gone.' 
'What?' 
'Yes. They are all gone. Besides the three of us, there is not a soul here. Get dressed. You 
look awfully ridiculous naked.' 
 
*** 
 
As they dress, their hands began to tremble. Both of them. With utmost difficulty they 
dealt with the buckles, hooks and buttons. Ciri chattered. 
'They are gone. Except for ourselves. Each and every one of them. They took all the 
prisoners, mounted their horses and left. They left no one behind.' 
'They left no one?' 
'Nobody.' 
'Incomprehensible,' Geralt shook his head. 'I don't understand it.' 
'And nothing happened,' Yennefer cleared her throat, 'to explain this?' 
'No,' Ciri replied quickly, 'nothing.' 
She lied. 
 
*** 
 
At first, she had tried to appear fine. Erect, proud, head held high and her face impassive, 
while being pushed into the gloved hands of the Black knights, while throwing bold and 
challenging looks and those helmets which made her so afraid. No one was touching her now, 
after the officer with the silver ornament on his helm growled at his officers. 
She walked between two rows of soldiers who escorted her to the gate. Their boots 
stomped loudly, their chainmail clinked and their weapons rattled. 
After advancing a few steps, she looked back for the first time, a little time later; she did 
it a second time. She would never see them again anymore, she suddenly realised with 
terrifying clarity. 
Neither Geralt nor Yennefer. Never again. 
That awareness, in one fell swoop wiped away her fake mask of courage. Ciri's face 
contracted and contorted her eyes filled with tears, and her nose ran. The girl fought with all 
her might, but in vain. A wave broke the dam as the tears made an appearance. 
The Nilfgaardians in salamander cloaks looked on silently. And amazed. Some had seen 
her on the stairs covered in blood, had seen her talking with the Emperor. A witcheress with a 
sword, who was defying the Emperor himself. And now they were stunned, seeing a simple 
girl crying and sobbing. 
She was aware of their gazes. Their eyes were burning like fire, prickling her skin. She 
struggled, but to no avail. The more she tried to restrain herself, the more she cried. 
She slowed and then stopped. The escort also stopped. But only for a moment. A grouchy 
officer grabbed her with iron hard hands under her arms. Ciri glanced over her shoulder 
again. She offered no resistance. But wailed louder, more desperate. 

The Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis stopped, this dark man whose face had awakened 
strange and confusing memories. With a sharp order, he ordered he loose. Ciri sniffed and 
wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Seeing the Emperor approach he stifled a sob and proudly 
raised her head. Although at the time she realise how ridiculous she must look. 
Emhyr watched her for a long time. Without a word. Then he approached and reached for 
her. 
Ciri, whose reactions to such movements were to instinctively recoil, did not react this 
time to her surprise. Even greater was her surprise to find that the contact with this man was 
not distasteful. 
He touched her hair, as if to count the snowy strings. He touched her cheek, his fingertips 
running along the old scar. Then he hugged her, cuddling her close to his chest, stroking the 
back of her head. And she, shaking and crying uncontrollably, let him. 
'A strange thing, fate,' she heard him whisper faintly. 'Goodbye, my daughter.' 
 
*** 
 
'What did he say?' 
Ciri's face clouded. 
'He said, Va Faill, luned. In the elder speech – Goodbye, my daughter.' 
'I know,' Yennefer nodded. 'What happened then?' 
'Then... Then he let me go, he turned around and walked away. He shouted orders. And 
they all left. They passed me, quite indifferently, stomping, pounding and rattling in their 
armour, out the gate. I heard neighing and galloping. I'd don't understand. Although if you 
think about it...' 
'Ciri.' 
'What?' 
'Do not think.' 
 
*** 
 
'Castle Stygga,' repeated Philippa Eilhart, looking out from under her long eyelashes at 
Fringilla Vigo. 
Fringilla did not blush. IN the last three months she had been able to product a magic 
cream which acted on blood vessels. Thanks to that cream the blush on her face didn't show, 
and no one could know that she was ashamed. 
'Vilgefortz was hiding in castle Stygga,' Assire var Anahid confirmed. 'It is in Ebbing on 
the shore of a mountain lake whose name, my informant, a common soldier, cannot 
remember.' 
'You used the past tense,' Francesca Findabair said. 
'Correct,' Philippa took control again. 'Because Vilgefortz is dead, my dear colleague. He 
and his companions are dead. This service was provided by our good friend the witcher 
Geralt of Rivia. Obviously we underestimated him. We all do. We made a mistake. We all 
do. Some more than others.' 
All the sorceresses as if on command looked at Fringilla, but the cream was working 
reliably. Assire var Anahid sighed. Philippa slapped her hand on the table. 
'Although it may seem like an excuse,' she said dryly, 'our activities associated with the 
war and the preparation of the peace negotiations and the fact that the Lodge was not 
involved with the case and final solution of Vilgefortz, have to be considered as a failure on 
our part. Something like this must not be repeated, dear ladies.' 
The Lodge – except for Fringilla who was pale as a corpse – shook their heads. 

'At the moment,' Philippa said, 'Witcher Geralt is somewhere in Ebbing. Along with 
Yennefer and Ciri. We will need to consider how to find them...' 
'And the castle?' Sabrina Glevissig interrupted. 'Have you forgotten to do something 
about that, Philippa?' 
'No, I have not forgotten. If there is going to be a legend, one must have the proper 
version and one in our favour. I'll entrust this task to you, Sabrina. Take Keira and Triss and 
take care of it. See that no trace is left.' 
 
*** 
 
The explosion was heard in Maecht, the flash – because it happened at night – was visible 
even in Metinna and Geso. A series of earthquakes caused by the explosion were felt even 
further. In virtually all corners of the world. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Congreve, Estella vel Stella, – The daughter of Otto of Congreve, married to the old 
Count Liddertal. Upon the death of the latter, rapidly recovered, managed her inheritance 
most judiciously, amassing for herself a not inconsiderable fortune. Enjoying the esteem of 
the emperor Emhyr var Emreis (sic), she was considered a person of great importance by the 
court. While she had no official duties, it was generally believed that the emperor was in the 
habit of paying considerable attention to her words and opinions. Because of her close 
personal relationship with the young Empress Cirilla Fiona (sic), whom she loved like her 
own daughter, she was jokingly referred to as the "Imperial mother-in-law". She outlived 
both the Emperor and the Empress, and died in 1331; as to her huge fortune, it fell to distant 

relatives on the Liddertal side of the family, called the Whites; being stupid and short-
sighted, they squandered every bit of their inheritance. 
 
Effenberg and Talbot 
Encyclopaedia Maxima Mundi, tome III 
 
 
 

Chapter Ten 
 
 
The man stealthily approaching the camp was very clever and cunning. His position 
changed quickly and he moved silently and swiftly so that his approach would not be noticed 
by anyone. Anyone but Boreas Mun. Boreas was very skilful in approaching manoeuvres. 
'Show yourself, stranger,' he called, making sure to make his voice sound confident and 
bold. 'Your tricks won't work on me. I can see you out there!' 
One of the boulders on the hillside against the starry sky moved and turned into the 
silhouette of a human figure. 
Boreas turned the spit roast as the meat was burning. Pretending to comfortably support 
himself, he put his hand on the handle of his bow. 
'My property is not worth much,' he said in a calm tone with a thread of warning. 'I only 
have a few things, but I do not intend to lose them. I will defend them to the death.' 
'I'm not a thief,' said the deep voice of the man hiding among the rocks. 'I am a pilgrim.' 
The pilgrim was tall and robust, measuring about seven feet and Boreas noticed quite the 
stomach on him. He held a cane in his hand that was a thick as a pole carts and looked like an 
ordinary pilgrim stick. Boreas Mun wondered how suck a big, hulking man could move with 
such agility. 
He became concerned. His bow, a composite bow with seventy pounds of pressure, which 
could dispatch an elk at a hundred paces, suddenly seemed like a fragile child's toy. 
'I am a pilgrim,' the figure repeated. 'I have no evil...' 
'The other one,' Boreas interrupted sharply, 'can come out too!' 
'What other...' the pilgrim stuttered and stopped, seeing from the darkness on the 
opposite side of the fire, emerge a slim, noiseless shadow. 
This time Boreas Mun was surprised. The other man was an elf – his expert trackers eye 
detected it right away by the way he moved. And being surprised by an elf had no shame. 
'I apologise,' the elf said, his voice slightly hoarse. 'I did not hide from the two of you 
out of malice, but out of caution. Um, I'd recommend you turn the spit a bit.' 
'He's right,' said the stranger, leaning on his cane and sniffing audibly. 'The way the 
meat smells, it's over done.' 
Boreas turned the spit, sighed, cleared his throat and sighed again. 
'Gentlemen, please sit down,' he said finally. 'Wait a few minutes and the roast will be 
done. I say, it is a knave who refuses hospitality to pilgrims on the road.' 
Grease dripped into the fire and the flame blazed brighter. The pilgrim whore a felt hat 
with a wide brim, which hid his face quite effectively in shadow. The elf wore around his 
head a colourful scarf, which did not hide his face. When they saw him in the firelight, the 
tracker and the pilgrim winced. They made no sound, just held their breaths at the sight of his 
face, which was once beautifully elven, but now was disfigured by an ugly scar that ran 
diagonally across his forehead, brow, nose and cheek to chin. 
Boreas Mun grunted and turned the spit again. 
'The smell,' he did not ask, but made a statement of fact, 'is what attracted you to my 
camp.' 
'Indeed,' said the pilgrim with the hat, 'I don't want to brag, but I smelled your roast at 
quite a distance. But I kept a proper vigilance. The fire, that I approached yesterday, the 
ragged savages were roasting a woman.' 
'That is true,' said the elf. 'The next morning I found human bones in the ashes.' 
'The next morning?' the tall pilgrim repeated. 
'How long have you been following in my footsteps, my Lord elf?' 
'A long time.' 

'What kept you from revealing your presence?' 
'Caution.' 
'The Elskerdeg Pass,' Boreas Mun said turning the spit and breaking the awkward silence, 
'does not enjoy the best reputation. I have also seen bones in fires, corpses on stakes and 
hanging from trees. In the surrounding mountains are hidden outlaws, outcasts and the 
followers of perverted cults. And creatures who only see a man by himself as food. 
Supposedly.' 
'Not supposedly,' said the elf. 'Definitely. And the further east you go into the mountains, 
the worse it gets.' 
'Are you also headed east? For Elskerdeg? To Zerrikania? Or even further, to Haakland?' 
Neither the pilgrim or the elf answered. Boreas Mun didn't really expect one. First, the 
question was indiscreet. Second, it was stupid. From where they were standing it was only 
possible to head east. Through the Elskerdeg Pass. Where he was headed. 
'The roast is ready,' Boreas, with a deft movement, which was also intended as a warning, 
flicked open a butterfly knife. 'Come, gentlemen, don't be shy.' 
The pilgrim took out a hunting knife and the elf a stiletto which was by no means a 
kitchen implement. All three, however, used their blades to cut the food. For some time all 
that could be heard was the crunch and crackle of eating and the sizzle of bones thrown into 
the fire. 
The pilgrim belched dignified. 
'Interesting animal,' the pilgrim said, looking at the shoulder that he had just cleaned as if 
he had spent three days in an anthill. 'The taste reminds me of lamb, but it was a tender as a 
rabbit... I do not remember ever having eaten anything like it before.' 
'That was a skrekk,' the elf said while crushing a bone between his teeth. 'But it does not 
resemble anything I have ever eaten.' 
Boreas quietly cleared his throat. The barely perceptible undercurrent of amusement in 
the elf's voice proved that he knew that he was eating a huge mountain rat, with blood red 
eyes and sharp incisors, whose tail measured one and a half cubits. The tracker was not going 
to catch the giant rodent, but shot it in self-defence. He then, however, decided to roast it. 
He was a wise man, the thought coldly. He never would have eaten a rat that fed on 
garbage and waste. But the nearest community to the Elskerdeg Pass that was able to produce 
waste was over three hundred miles away. The rat - or the skrekk as the elf had called it - has 
been clean and healthy. It had no contact with civilization. Therefore it had not been dirty or 
carrying disease. 
Finally they finished the last of the meat, the ribs and bones went into the fire. The moon 
rose over the jagged peaks of the mountains. The wind fanned the flames and sparks flew, 
they would die off between the myriad of twinkling stars. 
 'Have you gentlemen been on the road long?' Boreas Mun allowed himself another 
indiscreet question. 'How long since you went through the Solveig Gate?' 
'Long ago, or recently,' said the pilgrim. 'What does it matter? I passed through Solveig 
two days after September's full moon.' 
'For me it has been six days,' said the elf. 
'Ha,' the tracker said, emboldened by their answers. 'I'm surprised that we did not met 
there, Because I was passing through at the same time. But I was on a horse.' 
He paused, quenching gloomy thoughts and memories of his horse and its loss. He was 
sure that his casual companions had similar adventures. They could not have travelled the 
whole way on foot to catch him here in the vicinity of Elskerdeg. 
'I gather,' he continued, 'that you gentlemen started travelling just after the war and after 
the conclusion of the peace of Cintra. Naturally, I don't care, but I dare to presume that you, 
gentlemen were not satisfied with the order of things established at Cintra.' 

Silence reigned for a long time around the fire but was eventually broken by the distant 
howl. A wolf, probably, although around the Elskerdeg Pass you could never be sure of 
anything. 
'To be honest,' the elf said unexpectedly, 'I found after the peace of Cintra there was no 
reason why the world should love me. Or me the new layout.' 
'My own case,' said the pilgrim, crossing his arms over his powerful chest. 'was the 
same. Although I learned of it, as a friend of mine says, post factum.' 
There was a long silence. The howling had ceased in the pass. 
'In the beginning,' continued the pilgrim, although Boreas and the elf were convinced 
that he would not, 'everything pointed to the fact that the peace of Cintra would bring 
changes for the better and set tolerable living conditions for this world. If not for all, at least 
for some...' 
'The kings,' grunted Boreas, 'travelled to Cintra in April, if I recall.' 
'Exactly, April second,' said the pilgrim. 'I remember it was the new moon.' 
 
*** 
 
Along the entire wall located under dark beams within a gallery, hung a row of shields 
with the colourful figures of heraldic emblems and the coats of arms of the nobility of Cintra. 
One glance was enough to detect the difference between the old faded coats of arms of the 
nobility of Cintra and the newly promoted families from the reign of Dagorad and Calanthe. 
The latter had vibrant colours which had not yet faded and you could not detect the slightest 
sign of woodworm. 
However, the most intense colours appeared on the shield that had been put up most 
recently, those with the coat of arms of the Nilfgaardian nobles. Those who had distinguished 
themselves during the conquest of the country and had proven themselves during the five-
year imperial administration. 
Once we again hold Cintra, thought King Foltest, we will need to ensure that these coat 
of arms are not destroyed in a fervour of restoration. Politics is one thing, aesthetics another. 
Changes to a regime do not justify vandalism. 
So this is where it all began, thought Dijkstra, looking around the large hall. The famous 
engagement feast, during which appeared an iron hedgehog demanding Princess Pavetta's 
hand... And Queen Calanthe hired a witcher... 
How amazing are the interwoven fates of humans, thought the spy, surprised by the banality of his own thoughts. 
It's been five years, thought Queen Meve. Five years ago, the blood and brains of Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, exploded on the flagstones of that courtyard, which I can see through this window. Calanthe whose portrait we saw proudly hanging in the foyer, the last 
of the royal bloodline. After her daughter, Pavetta drowned, she was left with only her granddaughter Cirilla. And if it is true that Cirilla also died... 
'Please,' Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart the hierarch of Novigrad, waved his trembling hand, by virtue of his age, position and widespread respect he was to preside over the discussions. "To your places please."
They sat at a round table, where the seats were identified by mahogany tablets. Meve, Queen of Rivia and Lyria. Foltest, King of Temeria and his vassal, King Venzlav of Brugge. Demavend, King of Aedirn. Henselt, King of Kaedwen. Ethan, King of Cidaris. The young King Kistrin of Verden. The Duke Nitert, head of the regency council of Redania. And the Earl Dijkstra. 
We should seek to get rid of this spy and remove him from the table of discussions, thought the hierarch. King Henselt and King Foltest, and even young King Kistrin, have already allowed themselves a few sour comments to our Nilfgaardian representatives. This Sigismund Dijkstra is a person of dubious origins with an unacceptable past and reputation. We cannot afford to have such a person distorting the atmosphere of the deliberations. 
The head of the Nilfgaardian delegation, Baron Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, who sat at the round table directly opposite Dijkstra, greeted the spy with a curt diplomatic bow. Seeing that everyone was already seated, the hierarch of Novigrad also sat. Not without the help of a few 
pages that held his trembling hands. The hierarch sat on a chair made years ago for Queen Calanthe. The chair had a beautifully carved backing, towering over the other chairs. 
Even though this was a round table, it was known who was the boss. 

*** 
 
So it was here, thought Triss Merigold, looking around the room, looking at the tapestries, 
painting and numerous hunting trophies. Here in this room, after the devastation of the throne 
room, a memorable conversation took place between Calanthe, the witcher, Pavetta and an 
enchanted hedgehog. Here the Queen agreed to a strange marriage. After all, the princess 
was already pregnant and Ciri was born less than eight months later... Ciri, the heiress to the 
throne, the young lion with the Lioness's blood... Ciri, my little sister. Who is now apparently 
far away to the south. Fortunately, no longer alone, she is with Geralt and Yennefer. She's 
safe. 
Unless they have lied to me again. 
'Take a seat, ladies,' Philippa Eilhart said, who Triss had been watching suspiciously for 
some time. 'The sovereigns of the world will in a moment begin to recite their inaugural 
speeches. I would not want us to miss a single word.' 
The sorceresses, interrupting their gossip and quickly took their seats. Sile de Tansarville, 
wore a silver boa, a feminine accent to her austere black outfit. Assire var Anahid was 
dressed in a violet silk dress, which was graceful and combined simplicity and modest 
elegance. Francesca Findabair was majestic as ever. Ida Emean aep Sivney was mysterious as 
usual. Margarita Laux-Antille was dignified and serious. Sabrina Glevissig was adorned with 
turquoise. Keira Metz was dressed in green and lemon yellow. And Fringilla Vigo. 
Depressed, sad, pale, morbid and with a literal corpse-like pallor. 
Triss sat next to Keira and opposite Fringilla. On the wall behind the Nilfgaardian witch 
was a picture of a rider galloping down an alley of alders. The trees limbs reached towards 
the rider and their black cavities that served as mouths laughed. Triss shivered involuntary. 
Set in the middle of the table was a telecommunicator. Philippa, with a spell, adjusted the 
image and sound. 
'As you can see and hear,' she said somewhat bitterly, 'in Cintra's throne room, just 
below us, on the ground floor, the sovereigns of the world are about to decide its fate. And 
we, here, one floor above them, will watch to make sure they don't make a mistake.' 
 
*** 
 
The howling in the pass was joined by other voices. Now Boreas had no doubt, they were 
certainly wolves. 
'I too,' he said, trying to encourage more conversation, 'did not expect much from these 
negotiations in Cintra. The truth is that no one I know counted on these negotiations bringing 
anything good.' 
'The important thing was,' said the pilgrim, 'that the negotiations had begun. The 
common man, for that's what I consider myself to be, were well aware that the warring kings 
and emperor would destroy each other if they could, relentlessly. To stop the killing and sit 

down around the table. It meant that they no longer had the strength. They were, simply 
speaking, powerless. And that powerlessness meant that no soldiers would kill the common 
man, burn his house, kill his children raped his women or sell his whole family into slavery. 
No, instead they gathered in Cintra and negotiate. Let us rejoice!' 
The elf looked up from the burning logs which he was prodding with a stick. 
'Even the common man,' he said with obvious sarcasm, 'even in his moments of joy, 
should know that politics is also a war, only by other means. It should also be understood that 
such negotiations are merely a form of trade. It is conducted in an identical manner. Success 
in negotiation is based on concessions obtained. Something is given, something is lost. In 
other words, in order to buy something, something must be sold.' 
'Indeed,' the pilgrim said after a moment, 'Something so plain and obvious can be 
understood by even the simplest of men.' 
 
*** 
 
'No, no, a thousand times, no!' cried King Henselt, smashing his two fists into the 
tabletop, overturning his drink and making the inkwell jump. 'I will not hear any more 
discussions about it! No more haggling! No more, I say, deiraedh!' 
'Henselt,' Foltest said quietly in a conciliatory tone, 'don't hinder. And do not embarrass 
us by screaming in front of His Excellency.' 
Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, the negotiator on behalf of the Empire of Nilfgaard, bowed with a 
false smile, that suggested that the antics of the King of Kaedwen did not irritate or ultimately 
interest him. 
'Are we going to start attacking each other,' continued Foltest, 'like a pack of rabid dogs? 
Shame on you, Henselt.' 
'We have made arrangements with Nilfgaard in the thorny matter of Dol Angra,' said 
Dijkstra. 'It would be foolish...' 
'I resent such comments!' roared Henselt so loud he could have competed with a buffalo. 
'I resent such rude comments, particularly from some fucking spy! I am the fucking anointed 
King!' 
'It can't be seen at first glance,' Meve muttered. 
Demavend, turned away from looking at the shields on the rooms walls, smiling with 
distain, as if not concerned about the future of his kingdom. 
'Enough!' wheezed Henselt, his eyes rolling. 'Enough, by the gods. As I said, I won't 
give up an inch of land. Not one, not a single claim! I do not agree to the depletion of my 
kingdom by even a span, not even half an inch of earth! The gods have entrusted me with 
Kaedwen and therefore I would only be willing to surrender it to the gods! The Lower 
Marches is my territory... It has for centuries...' 
'Upper Aedirn,' Dijkstra spoke again, 'has only been part of Kaedwen since last summer. 
More specifically, from the twenty-four of July last year. From the moment that Kaedwen 
sent in occupational forces.' 
'I ask,' said Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen, 'that it be recorded ad futuram rei memorian, that the 
Empire of Nilfgaard had nothing to do with this annexation.' 
'Except for at that time you were plundering Vengerberg.' 
'Nihil ad rem!' 
'Really?' 
'Gentlemen!' Foltest admonished. 
'The Kaedwen army,' fumed Henselt, 'entered the Lower Marches as liberators! My 
soldiers were greeted with flowers! My soldiers...' 

'Your bandits,' said Demavend calmly, but his face betrayed the effort it cost to stay 
calm. 'Your bandits invaded my kingdom, murdered, raped and looted. Lady and gentlemen, 
we are gathered here for a week to discuss the future of the world. By the gods, is it to be the 
face of crime and looting? Should it be maintained in the lawless status quo? Should stolen 
goods remain in the hands of thugs and robbers?' 
Henselt grabbed a map from the table, tore it in two and with a rapid movement threw it 
at Demavend. The King of Aedirn did not even move. 
'My armies,' Henselt spluttered, his face turning the colour of a well aged wine, 'won the 
Marches from the Nilfgaardians. Your pitiful reign at that time was already in the past, 
Demavend. You probably don't realise, but if not for my troops, you would not even be 
ruling today. I'd like to see how you'd drive the Black Ones back over the Yaruga without 
my help. Without exaggeration I can say that you are only a king because of my kindness. 
But now my kindness ends! I will not let my kingdom be depleted!' 
'Neither will I,' Demavend stood. 'We will never reach an agreement!' 
'Gentlemen,' said Cyrus the hierarch in a conciliatory tone, who until then had been 
dozing. 'No doubt, we can always reach some compromise...' 
'The Empire of Nilfgaard,' said Shilard, 'does not intend to accept any solution that 
would harm the country of the elves of Dol Blathanna. If necessary, My Lords, I will re-read 
the content of the memorandum...' 
Henselt, Foltest and Dijkstra snorted, but Demavend looked at the Imperial ambassador 
calmly, almost benevolently. 
'For the good of the people,' he said, 'and to maintain the peace, I acknowledge the 
autonomy of Dol Blathanna. But not as a kingdom, but as a duchy. The condition is that the 
Duchess Enid an Gleanna pay me homage, and is committed to the equality of elves and 
humans rights and privileges. I am willing to do this, pro bono.' 
'Here,' said Meve, 'are the words of a true king.' 
'Salus publica lex suprema est,' added hierarch Hemmelfart, who for some time had 
waited for the opportunity to boast of his knowledge of diplomatic vocabulary. 
'I would like to add, however,' Demavend continued, looking at the bloated Henselt, 'that 
Dol Blathanna's concession is not a precedent. This is the only breach of the integrity of my 
lands that I will accept. I will not recognise any additional distributions. The army of 
Kaedwen, which breached my boarders as an aggressor and occupier, has one week to leave 
the fortresses and castles that they have illegally occupied in Upper Aedirn. That is the 
condition for me to continue to take part in these negotiations. And verba volant, my 
secretary will add an official protocol in that sense.' 
'Henselt?' Foltest gave him a questioning look. 
'Never!' bellowed the King of Kaedwen, overturning his chair and jumping like a 
chimpanzee stung by a hornet. 'I will never give up the Marches! You'll have to go over my 
corpse! I will not give it up! Nothing can force me! Nothing! Over my dead body!' 
And to prove that he was a scholar he shouted. 
'Non possumus!' 
 
*** 
 
'I'll give him non possumus, the fool!' snapped Sabrina Glevissig in the chamber one 
floor above. 'Don't worry ladies, I'm going to make this stubborn fool surrender Upper 
Aedirn. His army will leave within ten days, it is clear. There is no question about it. If any of 
you ladies doubt this, I have a right to feel offended.' 
Philippa Eilhart and Sile de Tansarville expressed their appreciation by bowing. Assire 
var Anahid thanked her with a smile. 

'Let us return to the problem of Dol Blathanna,' said Sabrina. 'We know the content of 
the memorandum of Emperor Emhyr. The kings down there have not have time to thoroughly 
discuss this issue, but they have already hinted at their approaches. The king whose voice 
carries most interest, you might say, is King Demavend.' 
'Demavend's position,' Sile adjusted the fur boa around her neck, 'can be described as 
extremely helpful. I consider his position to be thoughtful and balanced. Shilard Fitz-
Oesterlen will be no small trouble trying to argue in the direction of greater concessions. I 
don't know whether it can be done.' 
'It will be,' said Assire var Anahid. 'Such are his instructions. The presentation of an 
official note will have them tangling for at least a day. After that time, he will begin to make 
concessions.' 
'That is the normal procedure,' said Sabrina. 'According to him, they want to meet in a 
separate negotiation and come to an agreement. That's what we expect. We'll decide how 
much we'll allow. Francesca! Speak! After all, this is about your country.' 
'That is why,' said the Daisy of the Valley with a smile, 'I am silent, Sabrina.' 
'Break your pride, please,' Margarita Laux-Antille asked seriously. We really need to 
know what we can allow the kings.' 
Francesca Findabair smiled more beautifully. 
'For the cause of peace and pro bon public,' she said. 'I agree with the proposal f King 
Demavend. From now on, my dear friends, you can stop titling me, Your Majesty, Your 
Grace will be enough.' 
'Elven jokes,' said Sabrina. 'I never laugh, probably because I don't understand them. 
What about Demavend's remaining requirements?' 
Francesca blinked. 
'I agree with the repatriation of the settlers and the restitution of their property,' she said 
gravely. 'I guarantee equal rights for all races...' 
'By the gods,' Philippa Eilhart laughed, 'don't be so accommodating! Submit your own 
terms!' 
'I will,' the elf suddenly turned serious. 'I will not pay tribute to the Aedirn king. I want 
Dol Blathanna to be a freehold. Without the bond of vassalage, beyond the pledge of 
allegiance and not to act against the sovereign.' 
'Demavend will not accept this,' Philippa said laconically. 'He will not give us the profits 
and revenues from the Valley of Flowers.' 
'On that issue,' Francesca raised her eyebrows, 'I am willing to engage in bilateral 
negotiations, I'm sure we can reach a consensus. A freehold is not required to pay tribute, but 
payment is not necessarily prohibited or excluded.' 
'And what about succession rights?' asked Philippa. 'What about the right of 
primogeniture? Agreeing to a freehold, Demavend will require guarantees of the indivisibility 
of the Principality.' 
'Demavend,' Francesca smiled again, 'may be fooled by my skin and figure, but you 
surprise me, Philippa. It has been a long, long time since I passed the age of being able to get 
pregnant. As far as birthrights and successions, Demavend has nothing to fear. I am the 
ultimus familiae of the royal house of Dol Blathanna. However, despite the age difference 
between me and Demavend, I will not be dealing with him, but his grandchildren's great-
grandchildren. I assure you, ladies that in this respect there are no disputes.' 
'In this, no,' said Assire var Anahid looking the elven sorceress in the eyes. 'But what 
about the Squirrels? What about the elves that fought on the side of the Empire? If I'm not 
mistaken, Lady Enid, they are most of your subjects?' 
The Daisy of the Valley stopped smiling. She looked at Ida Emean the elf from the Blue 
Mountains. 

'Pro bono public...' she began, but did not finish. Assire nodded her head seriously, 
indicating that she understood. 
'What can we do?' she said slowly. 'Everything has its price. War requires sacrifice. As it 
turns out, so does peace.' 
 
*** 
 
'It cannot be denied,' the pilgrim said, looking thoughtfully at the elf, who sat motionless 
with his head down. 'Peace negotiation are like a flea market. A bazaar. To buy something, 
others must be sold. That's how the world works. The point is not to buy something that is 
too expensive...' 
'Or to sell for too cheap,' finished the elf, not raising his head. 
 
*** 
 
'Traitors! Vile bastards!' 
'Sons of bitches!' 
'An'badraigh aen cuach!' 
'Nilfgaardian dogs!' 
'Silence!' Hamilcar Danza yelled, banging his fist on the railing of the porch. 
The crossbowmen in the gallery turned their weapons on the elves who crowded in the 
cul de sac. 
'Peace!' Danza yelled even louder. 'Enough! Shut up, officers! More dignity!' 
'You have the audacity to talk about dignity, scoundrel?' shouted Coinneach Da Reo. 
'We spilled blood for you, curse Dh'oine! This is how you repay us? You send us to the 
oppressors of the North? As if we were criminals? Murderers?' 
'I said enough!' Danza thumped his fist into the railing again. 'Let's be very clear about 
one thing, gentlemen! The agreements signed in Cintra, which were recorded the conditions 
of peace, imposes an obligation on the Empire by the Nordlings to issue war criminals...' 
'Criminals?' shouted Riordain. 'Criminals? You filthy Dh'oine!' 
'War criminals,' Danza repeated carefully, ignoring the shouts and clamour of the 
encircled elves. 'Those officers who are accused of terrorism, killing civilians, the torture of 
prisoners, massacring the wounded in hospitals...' 
'You sons of bitches!' shouted Angus Bri Cri. 'We killed because we were at war!' 
'We killed following your orders!' 
'Cuach'te aep ass, bloede dh'oine!' 
'The decision is made!' Danza insisted. 'Your insults and cries will not change anything. 
Please individually approach the guardhouse, please do not resist when being put into 
chains.' 
'We had to stay behind while they fled to the Yaruga,' Riordain gritted his teeth. 'We had 
to stay and fight as commandos. We were fools, gullible fools, we wanted to keep our 
military oath. Well now we will!' 
Isengrim Faoiltiarna, the Steel Wolf, the legendary leader of the Squirrels, and now an 
imperial colonel, tore the silver rays of the Vrihedd brigade from his sleeves and threw them 
on the patio. Other officers followed suit. Hamilcar Danza, who was watching from the 
gallery, frowned. 
'This demonstration is unnecessary,' he said. 'In your place I would not so rashly 
abandon the imperial insignia. It is my duty to inform you that the negotiated peace will 
guarantee a fair trial, mild sentences and early amnesty for imperial...' 
The cul de sac of elves burst into a grim laugh, thundering between the stone walls. 

'Furthermore, I want to warn you,' Hamilcar Danza said curtly, 'that we will only send 
thirty-two officers to the Nordlings. We will not surrender any of the soldiers, who you 
commanded, not one.' 
The laughter ceased as if cut by a knife. 
 
*** 
 
The wind blew on the fire, sending up a shower of sparks and smoke which filled the 
eyes. They hear a howl from the pass. 
'With the trade,' the elf said, breaking the silence, 'everything was for sale. Honour, 
loyalty, a noble's oath, common decency... simple goods have value only as long as there is 
demand for them. If there was not, then it was thrown in the dustbin.' 
'On the rubbish heap of history; said the pilgrim. 'You're right, sir elf. That's what I 
found, there in Cintra. Everything had a price. And was worth as much as what you could get 
in return. Each morning began like a stock market. And like a real stock market sudden ups 
and down were continuously occurring. It was difficult to escape the impression that someone 
else was pulling the strings.' 
 
*** 
 
'Did I hear you right?' Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen asked slowly, his tone and facial expression 
giving the impression of mistrust. 'Are my ears deceiving me?' 
Berengar Leuvaarden, special envoy of the emperor, did not bother to respond. He leaned 
back in his chair, holding his cup of wine which he rocked rhythmically from side to side. 
Fitz-Oesterlen was offended; he then put on a mask of contempt. 
'Either you're lying, you son of a bitch, or you want to dupe me. Either way, I've 
uncovered you. So I'm to understand,' he sniffed, 'that after far-reaching concessions on 
borders, war captives, the recovery of loot, on the question of the Vrihedd brigade officers 
and Scoia'tael commandos, the emperor commands me to reach an agreement and accept the 
impossible demands of the Nordlings regarding the repatriation of settlers?' 
'You understand perfectly, Ambassador,' said Leuvaarden, characteristically dragging out 
his syllables. 'Indeed, I am full of admiration for your comprehension.' 
'The Great Sun, Lord Leuvaarden, do you in the capital ever meditate on the 
consequences of your decisions? The Nordlings are already whispering that our empire is a 
colossus with feet of clay! Even now they cry out that they won, beat us and drove us out! 
Does the Emperor realise that to give further concession will mean accepting their arrogant 
and unreasonable ultimatum? Does the Emperor understand that they will treat this as a sign 
of weakness which could have dire consequences in the future? Does the Emperor 
understand, finally, the fate of several thousand of our settlers in Brugge and Lyria?' 
Berengar Leuvaarden stopped rocking his cup and stared at Shilard, his eyes as black as 
coal. 
 'I have given My Lord Baron an imperial order,' he said. 'When the Baron returns to 
Nilfgaard he can personally ask the Emperor why he issued such unreasonable orders. He 
may also want to reprimand the Emperor. Scold him. Why not? But alone, without my 
mediation.' 
Oh, thought Shilard. I know. Sitting here before me is a new Stefan Skellen. And I'll have 
to deal with him just like Skellen. But it is clear he did not come here for no reason. The 
order could have been brought by a regular messenger. 
'Well,' he said, outwardly calm and confident. 'Woe to the vanquished. The imperial 
order is clear and specific, I will therefore execute it. I will do everything to make it look like 

the outcome of negotiations and not complete defeatism. I understand these things; I've been 
a diploma for thirty years. And my family for four generations. We are a significant, 
influential and rich...family...' 
'I know, I know, of course,' Leuvaarden interrupted with a smile. 'That's why I'm here.' 
Shilard bowed slightly and waited patiently. 
'My dear Baron,' began the envoy, rocking his cup again, 'your difficulties in 
understanding the imperial order arose because you surmised that the victory in the war is 
inextricably bound up with an absurd waste of material resources and human lives and is 
achieved by someone waving a flag and shouting, "Everything I see is mine! I won!" A 
similar opinion is, unfortunately, fairly widespread. But for me and the people who have put 
their trust in me, we don't think so. Victory is supposed to look like this – the defeated have 
to buy goods from the winners, and do it gladly, because the goods of the winners and better 
and cheaper. The winners currency is stronger than the currency of the defeated and the 
vanquished and they begin to have more confidence in their own. Do you understand me, 
Baron Fitz-Oesterlen? Are you slowly beginning to distinguish the winners from the losers?' 
Ambassador Fitz-Oesterlen nodded to confirm. 
'But in order to strengthen and legitimise the victory,' Leuvaarden said dragging out his 
syllables, 'a peace must be signed. A soon as possible and at any cost. Not a ceasefire or 
truce, but a real lasting peace. A strong contract that will build and exclude implementation 
of economic blockades, retaliatory tariffs and trade protectionism.' 
Shilard nodded earnestly. 
'We destroyed their industry and agriculture, according to a predetermined plan,' 
Leuvaarden continued calmly. 'We did this in order to deprive them of their own goods so 
they have to buy ours. But our merchants and products will not cross through closed or 
hostile borders. What will happen then? I will tell you what will happen, dear Baron. We will 
create the crisis of overproduction, because our manufactures are working full speed, hoping 
to export. Large losses will also be felt by the maritime trade, the result of cooperation with 
Novigrad and Kovir. Your influential family, dear Baron, have significant participation in 
such societies. And family, as you are no doubt aware, dear Baron, are the basic building 
blocks of such societies. Did you know?' 
'I know,' Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen lowered his voice, even though he knew that the chamber 
was reliably secure against eavesdropping. 'I understand. However, I would have assurance 
that I'm following the orders of the Emperor... And not some... corporation.' 
'Emperor's pass,' said Leuvaarden. 'Corporations remain. And survive. I understand your 
concern, Baron. You can be sure you are fulfilling the order of the Emperor, which was 
issued in the interest and for the good of the Empire. I do not deny, however, that our 
Emperor was issued some advice from certain corporations.' 
The envoy unbuttoned his collar and pulled out a gold medallion, on which was displayed 
a burning star inside a triangle. 
'An impressive decoration,' Baron Fitz-Oesterlen showed his understanding. 'Without a 
doubt, very expensive... and elitist... Is it possible to buy it somewhere?' 
'No,' replied Berengar Leuvaarden. 'It is necessary to earn it.' 
 
*** 
 
'If the gentlemen and the lady will allow,' Shilard Fitz-Oesterlen's voice took on a 
familiar tone which testified to what he was about to say, was considered important. 'If the 
gentlemen and lady will allow, I will read the content of the message from His Majesty 
Emhyr var Emreis, but the Great Sun, Emperor of Nilfgaard...' 

'No, not again,' Demavend gritted his teeth. Dijkstra quietly moaned. None of this 
escaped Shilard's attention. 
'The imperial message is long,' he admitted. 'I will summarise it, and limit myself to the 
most important points. The Imperial Majesty expresses his satisfaction over the course of the 
deliberations so far and welcomes the achieved compromises and reconciliations. His 
Imperial Majesty wishes to make further progress in the negotiations and to conclude them 
with mutual benefit...' 
'Let's get to the point,' said Foltest, 'And quickly! Let's conclude the mutual benefits and 
return home.' 
'That's the spirit,' Henselt said, who was farther from home than anyone. 'Let us get this 
over with, or we'll be here until winter.' 
'We have one more compromise,' said Meve. 'An issue that we have touched on only a 
few times in passing. Perhaps out of fear that it would cause us to quarrel. It is time to 
overcome that fear. The problem will not disappear by not talking about it.' 
'Right,' said Foltest. 'We must resolve the status of Cintra, the inheritance to the throne 
and Calanthe's successor. The issue is complicated, but I have no doubt we can handle it 
ourselves, right, Your Excellency?' 
'Oh,' Fitz-Oesterlen smiled diplomatically and enigmatic. 'I'm sure the question of 
succession to the throne of Cintra will go smoothly. The solution is simpler than you 
probably expected.' 
 
*** 
 
'I submit for discussion,' Philippa Eilhart announced in a tone that did not invite 
discussion, 'the following proposal – the territory of Cintra's trusteeship. I entrust this 
mandate to Foltest of Temeria.' 
'Foltest's holdings are growing too fast,' Sabrina Glevissig said with a scowl. 'Brugge, 
Sodden, Angren...' 
'We need,' said Philippa, 'a strong state at the mouth of the Yaruga. And in the Marnadal 
Stairs.' 
'It cannot be denied,' Sile de Tansarville nodded, 'we need it. But they need Emhyr var 
Emreis. And I recall that our goal is to compromise, not conflict.' 
'A few days ago Shilard suggested,' recalled Francesca Findabair, 'that Cintra will be 
divided with lines into two demarcation zones, a southern zone and a northern zone...' 
'A foolish idea,' said Margarita Laux-Antille. 'Such a division does not have any 
meaning and only becomes the seed for future conflict.' 
'I believe,' said Sile, 'that Cintra should be turned into a condominium state. 
Administration of the territory should be engaged by both commissioners from the northern 
kingdoms and the Empire of Nilfgaard. The citadel of Cintra would acquire the status of a 
free port... You wish to say something Lady Assire? I'm used to representing my thoughts 
coherently and in full form, but for now... I'm listening.' 
All the sorceresses turned their sights to Assire var Anahid, the Nilfgaardian witch did not 
look the least bit embarrassed. 
'I recommend,' she said in her pleasant, calm voice, 'that we focus on other issues. And 
leave Cintra alone. I have been told about something, which I have not had time to tell you 
ladies. The case of Cintra, dear colleagues, is already resolved and settled.' 
'What?' Philippa's eyes narrowed. 'What's that supposed to mean?' 
Triss Merigold sighed audibly. She already knew. She had already guessed what it meant. 
 
*** 

 
Vattier de Rideaux was sad and depressed. His beautiful and passionate lover, golden-
haired Cantarella was leaving him, suddenly and unexpectedly, without giving a reason or 
explanation. For Vattier, this was a low and terrible blow, he had left crestfallen, nervous, 
distracted and dazed. He had to pay attention, be careful and on guard and not to say 
something stupid while talking to the Emperor. Times of great change did not favour the 
nervous and incompetent. 
'The merchants guild,' Emhyr car Emreis said frowning, 'we have already paid for their 
invaluable help. We have granted them sufficient privileges, more than what they got from 
the previous three emperors together. In addition, we are indebted to Berengar Leuvaarden 
for his help in uncovering the conspiracy. He has received a high and lucrative position. But 
if he is incompetent, despite his merits, he will be shot from a catapult. Make sure that he 
knows this.' 
'I will, Your Majesty. And what of Dijkstra? And his mysterious informant?' 
'Dijkstra would sooner die than reveal who his informant is. However, give Dijkstra a fee 
for the information, which literally fell from the sky... But what? Dijkstra would not take 
anything from me.' 
'If You Majesty will allow...' 
'Speak...' 
'Dijkstra would be happy to accept other information. Something that he doesn't know, 
but would like to know. We could reward him with just such information.' 
'Excellent, Vattier.' 
Vattier de Rideaux sighed with relief. Because he had discreetly turned his head away, he 
was the first to notice the approaching ladies, the Countess Liddertal and the young blonde 
that was entrusted to her care. 
'They're coming,' he pointed out with a movement of his eyes. 'Your Majesty, let me 
remind you... The reason of state... In the interest of the Empire...' 
'Enough,' Emhyr var Emreis interrupted reluctantly. 'I said, I will consider. Think about 
the case and make a decision. And then I will inform you what the decision is.' 
'Very well, Your Majesty.' 
'Anything else?' The White Flame of Nilfgaard said impatiently, tapping his glove on his 
hip. 'What are you waiting for, Vattier?' 
'The issue of Stefan Skellen...' 
'No mercy. Death to traitors. But after a fair trial.' 
'I understand, Your Majesty.' 
Emhyr deigned not to look at him as he said goodbye with a bow and withdrew. Stella 
Congreve was waiting. And so was the blonde girl. 
Here comes the interest of the Empire, he thought. The false princess, the false Queen of 
Cintra. The sovereign to the area around the mouth of the Yaruga River, which is so 
important to the Empire. Here she comes, looking down, terrified, in a white silk dress with 
green sleeves and a necklace in shallow neckline. At Darn Rowan I complimented her dress 
and jewellery selection. Stella knows my tastes. But what am I supposed to do with this doll? 
Put her on a dresser or mantle? 
'Honoured ladies,' he bowed first. Outside of the throne room of Nilfgaard, the rules of 
civility and courtesy to women were obliged, even by the Emperor. They answered him with 
curtsies and bows of their heads. 
They were standing in front of a polite, but still Emperor. 
Emhyr had had enough protocol. 
'Stay here please, Stella,' he said dryly. 'And you, girl, come with me for a walk. Take 
my arm. Cheer up. It's just a walk.' 

They walked side by side down and alley. Imperial Guardsmen, members of the elite 
"Impera" brigade stayed away, but always at the ready. They were trained to protect the 
Emperor, and knew when not to interfere. 
They passed a pond, empty and sad. A very old carp brought by Emperor Torres, had died 
two days earlier. We will have to release a young, strong, carp, Emhyr decided. We'll make a 
medal with his portrait and the date. Vaesse deiraedh aep eigean. Something end, something 
begins. This is a new ear, new times. Let there also be a new carp. 
Lost in thought, he almost forgot about the girl he was holding on his arm. He 
remembered her presence due to her warmth, the smell of lilies and the interest of the empire. 
In that order. 
They stopped by the pond, in the middle rose an artificial island, with a rock garden, a 
fountain and a marble sculpture. 
'Do you know what this figure represents?' 
'Yes, Your Majesty,' she did not immediately answer. 'It represents a pelican, whose 
beak tears at its own breast to feed its children with blood. It is an allegory of a noble 
sacrifice. And also...' 
'I'm listening carefully.' 
'Also of great love.' 
'Do you think,' he held her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, 'that a torn chest 
hurts less?' 
'I don't know...' she stammered. 'Imperial Majesty... I...' 
He took her hand. He felt her twitch, the tremor ran through her hand, arm and shoulder. 
'My father,' he said, 'was a great ruler, but never paid attention to myths and legends, he 
never had the time for such things. He always confused them. Whenever he would bring me 
here, to the park, he said that the sculpture of the pelican was rising from the ashes. At least 
smile, girl, when the Emperor tells you stories from his childhood. That's better, thank you. I 
would be sad to think that you are not enjoying your walk with me. Look into my eyes.' 
'I'm happy... to be here... Your Majesty. It is a huge honour for me... Also a large joy. I 
am very happy...' 
'Really? This is not just courtly flattery? Etiquette from Stella Congreve's classed? Admit 
it, girl.' 
She was silent, her eyes downcast. 
'Your Emperor asked you a question,' said Emhyr var Emreis. 'And when the Emperor 
asked, no one dares be silent. Naturally, no one dares lie.' 
'Really,' she said in a melodious voice. 'I'm really happy, Imperial Majesty.' 
'I believe you,' Emhyr said after a moment's thought. 'I think. Although, I am surprised.' 
'I also...' she whispered. 'I am also surprised.' 
'What? Speak up, please.' 
'I wish we could... walk more often. And talk. But I understand... I understand that this is 
impossible.' 
'You understand well,' he bit his lip. 'Emperors rule the world, but two things they don't 
have control over. Their heart and their time. Both belong to the empire.' 
'I know that,' she said, 'all too well.' 
'I will not be here long,' he said after a moment of heavy silence. 'I have to go to Cintra, 
to grace them with my presence at the peace celebration. You will have to go back to Darn 
Rowan... Cheer up, girl. For the second time, lift your head in my presence. What is that I see 
in your eyes? Tears? This is a serious breach of etiquette, I will have show Countess 
Liddertal my highest displeasure. Lift your head, I said...' 
'Please... forgive Lady Stella... Imperial Majesty, this is my fault. Only mine. Lady Stella 
has taught me... and prepared me well.' 

I've noticed, and I appreciate it. Fear not, Stella does not run the risk of falling from 
grace. She never runs the risk. I was just joking with you. Poorly.' 
'I noticed,' replied the girl, terrified by her own boldness. But Emhyr just laughed. 
Somewhat forced. 
'Well, I like you,' he said. 'Trust me. You are brave. Much like...' 
He stopped. 
Much like my daughter, he finished in his head. A feeling of guilt struck him like a dog 
bite. 
The girl held his gaze. It's not just the work of Stella, thought Emhyr. This really is her 
nature. And despite appearances, she is a diamond that doesn't scratch. No I will not 
authorise Vattier to kill this girl. Cintra, this business interests the Empire, but this issue 
seems to have only one sensible and honourable solution. 
'Give me your hand.' 
It was an order delivered in a stern voice and tone. But even though, he could not help 
feeling that she would have done it willingly. Without coercion. 
Her hand was small and cold. But not shaking anymore. 
'What is your name? Please do not tell me it is Cirilla Fiona.' 
'Cirilla Fiona.' 
'I feel like punishing you, girl. Severely.' 
'I know, Your Majesty. I deserve it. But I... I must be Cirilla Fiona.' 
'I think that you' he said, still holding her hand, 'regret not being her.' 
'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I regret that I am not her.' 
'Really?' 
'If I was... truly Cirilla, perhaps, Your Majesty would have been kinder to me. But I am 
just a fake. An imitation. A doppelganger who is not worthy of anything. Nothing...' 
He whirled around and grabbed her arm. Then he released her and stepped back. 
'Would you like a crown? A position?' he spoke quietly, but quickly, pretending not to 
see her violently shake her head. 'Tribute? Compliments? Luxury?' 
He paused. He did not see the that the girl shook her head, denying his unjust accusations, 
perhaps even more unjust by the unspoken ones. 
He breathed loudly and deeply. 
'Do you know, little moth, that what you see in front of you is the flame?' 
'I know, Your Majesty.' 
They were silent for a long time. The smell of spring suddenly whirled in their heads. 
Intoxicating. 
'Being the Empress,' Emhyr finally said dully, 'is not easy, contrary to appearances. I do 
not know if I'll be able to love you.' 
She nodded to indicate that she knew this. He saw a tear on her cheek. Just like then, in 
the Castle Stygga, he felt like a sliver of glass was stuck in his heart. 
He hugged her, pressing her hard against his chest, stroking her hair which smelled like 
lilies. 
'My poor child,' he said in an unnatural voice. 'My poor reason of state.' 
 
*** 
 
Bells rang throughout Cintra. Dignified, deep and solemn. But strangely mournful. 
An unusual beauty, thought hierarch Hemmelfart, looking like everyone else, at the 
hanging portrait, that would measure, like the rest, half a fathom by a fathom, if not more. An 
unusual beauty. A half-breed I bet, she has in her veins the cursed blood of elves. 

Pretty, appreciated Foltest, prettier than those thumbnails shown to me by my secret 
service. But portraits are usually flattering. 
Quite unlike Calanthe, thought Meve. Quite unlike Roegner. Quite unlike Pavetta... 
Hmmm... There were rumours... No, it's not possible. She must be the royal blood, a 
legitimate ruler of Cintra. She must. It is required by reasons of state. And history. 
She was not like I've seen in my dreams, thought Esterad Thyssen, King of Kovir. I'm 
sure she is not the same. But I will not tell anyone. I'll keep this to myself and my Zuleyka, 
together we can decide how we can use this knowledge the dreams have given us. 
That was close, she was to be my wife, this Ciri, thought Kistrin of Verden. I would have 
been the prince of Cintra and heir to the throne, according to custom... I probably would 
have died with Calanthe. Oh well, it is good that she ran away from me. 
Not for a moment do I believe the fables of love at first sight, thougth Shilard Fitz-
Oesterlen. Not for a moment. And yet now Emhyr has married the little barbarian. He 
rejected the possibility of reconciling with imperial nobility and marring their daughters and 
married Cirilla of Cintra. Why? To dominate a small country, that half, if not more, 
Nilfgaard would have gained during negotiations? In order to consolidate his power at the 
mouth of the Yaruga, which is essentially in the hands of the Nilfgaard-Novigrad-Kovir 
maritime trading companies? I do not understand this political necessity, so I suspect they 
did not tell me everything. 
Sorceresses, Sigismund Dijkstra thought. This is the work of sorceresses. But why would 
it not be? Undoubtedly, it was written that Ciri would be Emhyr's wife, Queen of Cintra and 
Empress of Nilfgaard. No doubt it was her destiny. 
Keep it this way, Triss Merigold thought happily. It is a good solution. Ciri will be safe. 
And eventually they'll forget her. They let her live. 
The portrait was finally put in place, the servants who were hanging it withdrew, taking 
the ladder with them. 
At the end of a long line of dark and dusty Cintran nobles, beyond the portrait of Cerbin, 
Coram and Corbett, past, Dagorad and Roegner, beyond proud Calanthe and melancholy 
Pavetta, hung the last portrait. It showed the reigning Empress, the heiress of the royal blood 
and the crown. A slim girl with blond hair and sad eyes in a white dress with green sleeves – 
Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Queen of Cintra and Empress of Nilfgaard. 
Destiny, thought Philippa Eilhart, watching Dijkstra's eyes. 
Poor child, thought Dijkstra, looking at the portrait. She probably thinks this is the end of 
her afflictions and misfortunes. Poor child. 
In Cintra the bells tolled, frightening the gulls. 
 
*** 
 
'Soon after the conclusion of the negotiations and the signing of the peace,' the pilgrim 
continued his story, 'a celebration was held in Novigrad, which culminated in a large military 
parade. As befitting the first day of a new historical epoch, the weather was beautiful.' 
'We are to understand,' the elf ask sarcastically, 'that you were at it? That you attended 
the parade?' 
'I was a little late,' the pilgrim was obviously not someone who was bothered by a little 
sarcasm. 'Like I said, it was a beautiful day. It promised to be such from dawn.' 
 
*** 
 
Vascoigne, commander of the fort of Drakenborg and until recently deputy commander 
for political affairs, eagerly slapped his whip on his boots. 

'Move, move,' he urged his executioners. 'They're expecting more. In Novigrad you can 
celebrate, but here we have to work.' 
The executioners place the nooses around the prisoners necks and withdrew. Vascoigne 
swung his whip again. 
'If anyone wants to say something,' he said dryly, 'this is your last chance.' 
'Long live freedom,' said Cairbre aep Diared. 
'The court was biased against me,' said Orestes Kopps a marauder, pillager and murderer. 
'Kiss my ass,' said Robert Pilch a deserter. 
'Tell Lord Dijkstra, that I'm sorry,' said Lennep, a former agent convicted of bribery and 
fraud. 
'I did not, I did not want too...' cried Istvan Igalffy, swaying on a stump, former 
commandant of the fort, removed from the post and brought before a tribunal for excessive 
acts which are not permitted against the prisoners. 
The sun, like molten gold, exploded over the stockade of the fort. The posts of the 
gallows threw elongated shadows. In Drakenborg, began a new day, beautiful and sunny. 
The first day of a new era. 
Vascoigne's whip lashed his boot. He raised and lowered his hand. 
The stumps were kicked out from under the feet of the condemned. 
 
*** 
 
Throughout Novigrad bells rang. The sound was carried over the mansard roofs of 
merchant houses, until it came to the narrowest and most remote streets. Whistling rockets 
and exploding firecrackers. The crowd cheered, yelled, throwing hats in the air, waving 
handkerchiefs, scarves and flags. 
'Long like the Free Company!' 
'Long live!' 
'Glory to the Condottieri !' 
Lorenzo Molla saluted the crowd and blew a kiss to the beautiful girls. 
'If we are paid with the same enthusiasm with which we are cheered,' he shouted to be 
heard above the uproar, 'then we'll be rich!' 
'It's too bad,' Julia Abatemarco's throat constricted, 'that Frontino couldn't see this...' 
The marched down the main street, Julia Abatemarco, Adam "Adieu" Pangratt and 
Lorenzo Molla, leading a festively dressed Company, who were formed in rows of four, so 
none of the horses, sleek and shiny, moved forward an inch in front of the others. The horses 
of the condottieri were like their riders - calm and haughty, not frightened by the cheers and 
the shouting of the crowd and the only reaction to the coins and flowers flying towards them 
was to shake their heads slightly, almost imperceptibly. 
'Long like the Condottieri!' 
'Long live Adam "adieu" Pangratt! Long live Pretty Kitty!' 
Julia surreptitiously wiped away a tear, and caught a carnation that had been thrown from 
the crowd. 
'I never would have dreamed...' she said. 'We won... Poor Frontino...' 
You're moved, Julia,' Lorenzo Molla smiled. 'I never knew you were such a romantic 
soul.' 
'Well, yes. Attention, company! Face... left!' 
They stood at attention in their saddles, turning the horses heads to face the grandstand 
and the seats and thrones arranged there. 

I can see Foltest, Julia thought. The one with the beard must be Henselt of Kaedwen, and 
the handsome man is Demavend of Aedirn... That Matron must be Queen Hedwig... And the 
boy by her side, Crown Prince Radovid, son of the king that was killed... Poor kid... 
 
*** 
 
'Long live the condottieri! long like Julia Abatemarco! Long live Adam Pangratt! Long 
live Lorenzo Molla!' 
'Long live Constable Natalis!' 
'Long live our monarchs! Long live Foltest, Demavend and Henselt!' 
'Long live Lord Dijkstra!' 
'Long live His Holiness!' A few voices came from the crowd, obviously bribes. 
Novigrad's hierarch Cyrus Englekind Hemmelfart rose and blessed the people and the army 
with his outstretched hands, while irreverently covering Queen Hedwig and young Radovid 
with the skirts of his robe. 
Nobody shouts, "Long live Radovid", thought the prince covered by the hierarch's fat ass. 
No one even looks at me. No one is screaming in honour of my mother. No one remembers my 
poor father. Even today, at a day of triumph, which he so richly deserved. After all, that's why 
he was murdered. 
He felt a gaze on his neck. Delicate like someone he did not know - or knew, but only in 
his dreams. Something that was soft like a brush of a woman's warm lips. He turned his head. 
He discovered the dark unfathomable eyes of Philippa Eilhart fixed on him. 
Wait, thought the prince, looking away. Just wait. 
No one could predict or guess then that this boy of thirteen years, which at that time was a 
person without any relevance in a country ruled by the Regency Council and by Dijkstra, 
would become king. A king who, after he paid all the insults that had been given to his 
mother and him, would go down in history with the name Radovid the Stern. 
The crowd cheered. The ground beneath the hooves of the horses of the condottieri were 
carpeted with flowers. 
 
*** 
 
'Julia?' 
'Yes, Adieu?' 
'Marry me. Become my wife.' 
Pretty Kitty did not answer for a long time, she was surprisingly speechless. The crowd 
cheered. The Novigrad hierarch, sweating and gasping for breath like a big catfish, blessed 
from the stands the burghers and soldiers, the city and the world. 
'You're married, Adam Pangratt.' 
'we have long lived separately. I'm getting a divorce.' 
Julia Abatemarco did not answer. She turned her head. 
Surprised. 
Confused. 
And very happy. Without really knowing why. 
The crowd cheered and threw flowers. The rockets and fireworks burst in artificial light 
above the rooftops and between the noise and the smoke the bells of Novigrad sounded like a 
whimper. 
 
*** 
 

She's a woman, thought Nenneke. She went to war a child. And has come back a woman. 
Confident. Realising who she is. Quiet. Relax. A woman. 
She won the war. By not letting the war destroy her. 
'Deborah,' Eurneid continued listing quietly, 'died of typhus in a camp in Mayena. Prune 
drowned in the Yaruga when a boatload of wounded capsized. Myrrhe was killed by elves, 
Squirrels, during an attack on the hospital in Armeria... Katja...' 
'Tell me, child,' Nenneke gently urged. 
'Katja,' Eurneid cleared her throat, 'met a wounded Nilfgaardian in the hospital. After the 
conclusion of the peace, when the prisoners where exchanged, she went with him to 
Nilfgaard.' 
'I've always said,' sighed the priestess, 'that love knows no boundaries. And what about 
Iola the Second?' 
'Alive,' Eurneid hurried to explain. 'She is in Maribor.' 
'Why did she not come back?' 
The adept bowed her head. 
'She will not return to the temple, Mother,' she said quietly. 'She is at a hospital with 
Mister Milo Vanderbeck , the surgeon, a halfling. She said that she wants to care for the sick. 
This is what she wants to dedicate her life to. Forgive her, Mother.' 
'Forgive?' cried the priestess. 'I'm proud of her!' 
 
*** 
 
'You're late,' Philippa Eilhart said through clenched teeth. 'You're late to a feast that has 
the presence of kings. Bloody hell, Sigismund, your distain for protocol is well known, and 
you do not need to flaunt it, on a day like this...' 
'I have my reasons,' Dijkstra responded with a look from Queen Hedwig and the raising 
of his eyebrows from the hierarch of Novigrad. He also caught the scowl on the face of priest 
Willemer and the sneer on the face of King Foltest. 'Can I have a word with you Phil?' 
'Alone, I imagine...' 
'That would be best,' Dijkstra smiled. 'But, if you prefer, I have no objection to more eyes 
watching. for example, the beautiful eyes of the ladies of Montecalvo.' 
'Lower your voice,' the sorceress mutter, without erasing the smile from her lips.' 
'When will you grant me an interview?' 
'I'll think. I'll let you know. Now leave me alone, this is a ceremony. A great feast. I'll 
remind you, if you hadn't noticed.' 
'A great feast?' 
'We are on the threshold of a new era, Dijkstra.' 
The spy shrugged. 
The crowd was cheering. Fireworks went off. The bells of Novigrad rang, signalling the 
victory and as a sign of great glory. 
But the ringing was strangely mournful. 
 
*** 
 
'Hold the reins, Jarre,' Lucienne said. 'I'm getting something to eat. Wrap the reins 
around your hand. I know you only have one.' 
Jarre felt a blush of shame and humiliation on his face. He was still not used to the 
constant feeling that people had nothing better to do but to stare at his stump and his sleeve 
which was sewn shut. That the world noticed him at all hours, pitying his injury and 

hypocritically lamenting his fortune, while in the depth of their souls despising him as 
something that dared to tamper with his ugliness, the beautiful reigning order. 
Lucienne, he had no choice but to admit, was quite different, in that sense, than the rest of 
the people. She neither pretended not to see or fell into mannerisms that degraded or 
humiliated him. Jarre several times found himself thinking that this blonde girl treated him 
naturally and normally. But that idea constant fought back. He Refused to accept it, because 
he could not bring himself to behave normally or naturally. 
The wagon carrying the war amputees squeaked and rattled. After a short rainy season 
had come the sweltering heat. The potholes formed by the passage of continuous military 
convoys had dried and hardened, becoming ridges, edges and protrusions of fantastic shapes, 
and they rolled over these pulled by four horses. The wagon swung and swayed like a ship in 
a storm. The mutilated, most lame and legless soldiers cursed and swore hoarsely. Lucienne 
held onto Jarre, hugging him, sharing her magical warmth, his prodigious softness and 
exciting mix of smells – horse, leather, hay, oats and girlish sweat. 
The wagon jumped at the next pothole. Jarre pulled on the rein wrapped around his wrist. 
Lucienne, alternately eating bread and sausage clung to his side. 
'Well, well...' she noticed his brass medallion and craftily took advantage that Jarre's one 
hand was occupied with the reins. 'What have we here? A love charm? So you were tricked 
as well? The guy, who invented this trinket, had to be a pretty darn good trafficker. The 
demand for these were great during the war, especially after too much vodka. What is the 
name of the girl you wear inside? Let me see...' 
'Lucienne,' Jarre blushed like a tomato, 'do not open it, please... I'm sorry, but that is my 
personal thing. I do not want to offend you, but...' 
The wagon jumped and Lucienne snuggled into Jarre silently. 
'Ci...ril...la,' he said with effort, he did not expected a peasant girl to have far-reaching 
knowledge. 
'You will not forget about her,' she shut the locket and let it go, then looked at the boy. 
'This Cirilla, that is. If you truly loved her. Amulets and spells are useless. If she loves you, 
she will be faithful and waiting.' 
'For this?' Jarre raised his stump. 
The girl narrowed her eyes, blue as forget-me-nots. 
'If she really loves you, she'll be waiting,' she said firmly. 'And nothing else matters. I 
know this.' 
'You have a lot of experience?' 
'It's none of your business,' Lucienne blushed this time. 'I had, what I had and with 
whom. But do not think I belong with those who nod their head and lie down on their back 
and spread their legs. But I know what I know. If a girl loves a man, so loves all of him and 
not little pieces. Therefore, she loves him even when a piece is missing.' 
The wagon jumped. 
'You are oversimplifying it,' Jarre said through clenched teeth. 'Oversimplifying and 
idealising, Lucienne. You're forgetting the little detail, that is when a man is whole, he is 
supposed to be able to support his wife and family. As a cripple I cannot...' 
'Bah, do not cry into my apron,' she said without a fuss. 'The Black ones took your hand, 
not your head. What are you looking at? I'm from the country, but I have eyes and ears. I'm 
bright enough to know by the way you talk that you are a scholar. In addition...' 
She cleared her throat. Jarre also cleared his throat, and breathed her scent. The wagon 
jumped. 
'Besides,' finished the girl, 'I heard what you were saying to others. That your are 
learned. That you were a scribe in a temple. So the hand... Bah...' 

The wagon had been driving for a while without hitting any potholes, but Jarre and 
Lucienne seemed unaware – they remained firmly pressed together. 
'Well,' she said after a long pause, 'I'm lucky with scholars. There was one... I used to... 
He walked behind me... He knew a lot, and had gone through an academy. It even showed in 
his name.' 
'What was his name?' 
'Semester.' 
'Hey, girl,' called Sergeant Derkacz from behind them, a creepy looking man who was 
crippled during the battle of Mayena. 'Crack the whip over those geldings heads, this cart is 
crawling along like snot down a wall!' 
'Yeah, pick up the pace,' added a second cripple, scratching under his pants leg at a 
stump covered with shiny pink skin. 'We've had enough of these wastelands. I miss the 
taverns. You don't know what I'd do for a beer! Can we not go faster?' 
'I can,' Lucienne turned around on the wagon box. 'But if I break a hole in the wheel or 
the axle, you won't be drinking beer, only rain water. You'll be waiting a week before we can 
bring any more wagons for you.' 
'Too bad,' grinned Derkacz, 'because the other night I had a dream that we were married. 
You could carry me on your back...' 
'You smelly goat,' cried Lucienne. 'The plague take you...' 
She stopped, seeing all the faces of the disabled men travelling in the wagon suddenly 
turn deathly pale. 
'The gods!' cried one of them. 'And we were so close to home...' 
'We are lost,' Derkacz said quietly and without any fuss. He was simply stating a fact. 
And they said, Jarre thought to himself, that there were no longer any Squirrels. That we 
had killed them all. That the issue with the elves had been resolved. 
There were six horses. But on closer inspection there were eight riders. Two of the 
mounts carried two people. All the horses had a stilted, arrhythmic gait, their heads bowed 
low. They looked exhausted. 
Lucienne sighed deeply. 
The elves approached. They looked even worse than their horses. Nothing remained of 
their pride, their disdainful superiority or charismatic differences. Their clothing, usually 
decorative even in the guerrilla squads, was dirty and ragged. Their hair, their pride and 
glory, was matted, sticky with dirt and dried blood. Their big eyes, usually devoid of any 
expression, were now abysses of panic and despair. 
Nothing remained of their differences. Death, fear, hunger and adversity had made them 
ordinary. Very ordinary. 
They did not inspire fear. 
Jarre, for a moment thought that they would linger, but they simply cross paths and 
disappear into the woods, without bothering to look at the wagon and its passengers. They 
only left behind them a smell, an unpleasant smell that Jarre remembered from the field 
hospitals – the smell of misery, urine, and festering wounds. 
They passed by without bothering to look at them. 
But not all. 
An elf with long dark hair, caked with dirt and dried blood, stopped her horse near the 
wagon. She sat in her saddle hunched over, her arm was in a bloody bandage which flies 
climbed on. 
'Toruviel,' said one of her comrades, 'En'ca digne, luned.' 
Lucienne quickly realised what was happening. She knew what she was seeing in the elf, 
having been raised in a village, she had known the livid spectre of hunger. Therefore, she 
reacted instinctive and unequivocal. She offered the elf some bread. 

'En'ca digne, Touruviel,' repeated the elf. He was the only one of all the company 
wearing an emblem on his torn jacket sleeve of the silver lightning of the Vrihedd brigade. 
The cripples in the wagon had remained still, not moving a muscle until that instant, 
suddenly shivering as if a spell had released them. In their hands, held out to the elves, as if 
by magic, appeared food, bread, cheese, slices of bacon and sausages. 
And the elves, for the first time in a thousand years, spread their hands towards humans. 
Lucienne and Jarre were the first people who saw the elves cry. Great choking sobs, not 
even trying to wipe the tears from their dirty faces. Refuting the claims that elves did not 
have tear ducts. 
'En'ca... Digne,' repeated the elf with the lightning bolt on his sleeve. He then reached 
out and took the bread from Derkacz. 
'Thank you,' he croaked, finding it difficult to adjust his lips to the strange language. 
'Thank you, man.' 
After a while, seeing that everyone was finished, Lucienne clicked at the horses and 
jerked the reins. The wagon began to creak and rattle. They were silent. 
It was approaching evening when they met armed horsemen. They were led by a woman 
with white, short-cropped hair, her face disfigured by scars. One bisected her face from the 
corner of her mouth in an arc to her eye. The woman was missing half of her right ear and her 
left arm below the elbow ended in a leather cuff with a brass hook, which the reins were 
wrapped around. 
The woman, with a hostile look that betrayed her fierce desire for revenge, asked about 
the elves. About the Scoia'tael. The terrorists. The fugitives, survivors from a commando unit 
destroyed two days ago. 
Jarre, Lucienne and the cripples in the wagon avoided eye contact with the white-haired, 
one-handed rider and indistinctly mumbled that they had not seen any elves or met anybody 
on the road. 
You lie, thought the woman who was once Black Rayla. I know you are lying. You lie out 
of pity. But even so that will not help them, because I, White Rayla, do not know pity. 
 
*** 
 
'Hooray, dwarves! Long live Els Barclay!' 
In Novigrad the pavement rumbled beneath the shod boots of the veterans of the 
Volunteer Army. The dwarves marched in a formation of five, waving their flags which 
depicted crossed hammers. 
'Long live Mahakam! Long live the dwarves!' 
'Glory and honour to them!' 
Suddenly, someone in the crowd laughed. And soon everybody was laughing. 
'This is a scandal...' gasped Hemmelfart. 'An affront... It is unforgivable...' 
'Vile people,' hissed the priest Willemer. 
'Pretend you do not see them,' Foltest told them calmly. 
'We should not have skimped when dividing the spoils,' said Meve sourly. 'And refused 
to supplement the rations.' 
The dwarven officers retained their seriousness and form, and stood before the grandstand 
and saluted. The non-commissioned officers and soldiers of the Volunteer Army, however, 
expressed their discontent against the austerity measures imposed by the kings and hierarch. 
Some of them, once past the grandstand, showed the kings a bent elbow, other made one of 
their favourite gestures – a clenched fist with an upright middle finger. Scholars describe the 
gesture as digitus infamis. Common people called it something worse. 

The blush on the faces of the kings and the hierarch showed that they were familiar with 
both names. 
'We should not have insulted their greed,' Meve insisted. 'There people are very 
fastidious.' 
 
*** 
 
The howling around Elskerdeg became a gruesome chant. None of the men sitting by the 
fire paid any attention. 
The first to speak after the long silence was Boreas Mun. 
'The world has changed. Justice has been done.' 
'You overdid it a bit with the justice, my friend,' the pilgrim smiled. 'However, I agree 
that the world has changed. Adjusting to the fundamental laws of physics.' 
'I wonder,' said the elf, 'if we are thinking of the same laws.' 
'Every action,' said the pilgrim, 'has a reaction.' 
The elf chuckled, but it sounded friendly. 
'A point to you, human.' 
 
*** 
 
'Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, former Imperial Coroner, stand up. The Supreme 
Court of the eternal Empire by the grace of the Great Sun finds you guilty of crimes and 
abuse, of which you were charged. For the treason and active participation in a conspiracy 
against the Empire as well as the person of the Imperial Majesty. Your guilt has been ratified 
and proven and the Tribunal has found without any extenuation circumstances. Also His 
Imperial Majesty has exercised his right not to grant a pardon. Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram 
Skellen, you will be transported from this courtroom to the Citadel, where you will be held 
until the proper time comes. As a traitor to your homeland of Nilfgaard, you are unworthy to 
tread upon its ground; you will be laid on a wooden skid and dragged by horses to 
Millennium Square. As a traitor to his homeland of Nilfgaard, you are unworthy to breathe 
the air; you will be hanged by the neck on the gallows between heaven and earth. So you will 
stay there until you die. Then your body will be cremated and the ashes scattered to the winds 
on the four sides of the world. Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, traitor. I the Chairman 
of the Supreme Court of the Empire, sentence you and this is the last time I will speak your 
name. From now on, let it be forgotten.' 
 
*** 
 
'We did it, we made it!' Professor Oppenhauser shouted as he burst into the dean's office. 
'We did it, gentlemen! Finally! Finally! It works! It moves! It works!' 
'Really?' Jean La Voisier, professor of chemistry, called Carbonstinker by his students, 
asked sceptically. 'Is it really possible? And how, out of curiosity, does it work?' 
'Perpetual motion!' 
'Perpetuum mobile?' exclaimed Edmund Bumbler, the elderly zoology lecturer. 'You're 
not exaggerating, my dear colleague?' 
'Not at all!' Oppenhauser exclaimed, jumping like a goat. 'Not at all! It works! I've 
launched a functional mobile and it works! Without stopping! Perpetually! For ever and ever! 
There are no words to describe it, colleagues, you have to see it! Come with me, hurry!' 
'I'm eating breakfast,' Carbonstinker protested, but his protest was lost in the commotion, 
excitement and widespread bustle. 

The teachers, graduates and students stood up to collect their togas, capes and gowns and 
ran to the door, led by the shouting and gesticulation Oppenhauser. Carbonstinker dismissed 
them with a digitus infamis and returned to the roll on his plate. 
The group of scholars were on the march ready to see the fruit of Oppenhauser's thirty 
years of efforts, they ran quickly towards the office and were about to open the door when 
suddenly the ground trembled. Noticeably. And strongly. Very strongly. 
It was a seismic shock, one of a series of shocks caused by the destruction of the castle 
Stygga the hiding place of the sorcerer, Vilgefortz. The seismic wave from far off Ebbing had 
reached here to Oxenfurt. 
With a clatter, several panes of stained glass fell from the front of the Department of Fine 
Arts. The dusty bust of Nicodemus de Boot, the first rector of the academic institution, fell 
from its pedestal. Carbonstinker's cup of tea fell from the table where he was eating his roll. 
From a banana tree a freshmen from the physics department, Albert Solpietra, fell while 
trying to impress the female medical students. 
The perpetual motion machine of Professor Oppenhauser, the legendary inventor, moved 
for the last time, before standing still. Forever. And it was never possible to restart it. 
 
*** 
 
'Long live the dwarves! Long live Mahakam!' 
What a band, what soldiers, thought the hierarch Hemmelfart, as he bless the parade with 
his trembling hands. Who are they cheering here? The venal condottieri, the obscene 
dwarves, what kind of madness is this? In the end, who won this war, them or us? By the 
gods, I have to warn the monarchs. When historians and scribes are put to work, we must 
subject their works through censorship. Mercenaries, witchers, murderers for hire, non-
humans and all kinds of suspicious items should disappear from the annals of mankind. We 
have to erase them. Not a word about them. Not a word. 
And not a word about him too, he thought, clenching his lips and looking at Dijkstra, 
watching the parade with a clearly bored expression. 
It will be necessary, thought the hierarch, to issue a command to the kings about Dijkstra. 
His presence is an insult to decent people. This atheist and villain. Let him disappear without 
a trace. And let him be forgotten. 
 
*** 
 
This is what you think, you sanctimonious purple pig, thougth Philippa Eilhart, 
effortlessly reading the hierarch's mind. Do you want to rule, do you want to dictate and 
influence? Would you like to decide? Never! The only thing you can decide about is your 
haemorrhoids and even that is on your own ass, and you decisions there will not be relevant 
either. 
And Dijkstra remains. As long as I need him. 
 
*** 
 
Once you make a mistake, thought the priest Willemer, fixing his eyes on the shiny red 
lips of Philippa Eilhart. Or any of you make a mistake. And you'll lose your conceit, 
arrogance and pride. The plots that you weave. Your immorality. Your atrocity and 
perversions to which you surrender, in which you live. All light will eventually leave, and the 
pestilence of your sins will spread when you make a mistake. The moment will come. 

Because even if you do not make a mistake, I will find a way to defame you. Some 
misfortune will befall mankind – a curse, a plague, a pestilence of perhaps an epidemic... 
Then all the blame will be on you. You will be punished for not having been able to prevent 
the plague, by not knowing how to avoid its consequences. You will carry with you all the 
blame. 
And then I will light the fire. 
 
*** 
 
The old tomcat, called Ginger because of the colour of his coat, died. Ugly. Convulsing in 
agony, clawing, vomiting blood and pus and suffering from bloody diarrhoea. He meowed, 
even though he knew it was beneath his dignity. His meow was pitifully weak. He was losing 
strength quickly. 
Ginger knew why he was dying. Or at least figured out what had killed him. 
A few days ago a strange freighter entered the harbour at Cintra, an old grimy hulk, which 
carried on the bow a barely legible inscription "Catriona". Ginger – obviously - could not 
read the name. A rat, walking down a mooring rope, came down to the dock. Just one. It was 
a mangy and dirty looking rat. And it was missing an ear. 
Ginger bit the rat. He was hungry, but his instinct stopped his from devouring this 
abomination. However, several large, black, shiny fleas jumped from the rat and settled in his 
fur. 
'What happened to this cat?' 
'Probably been poisoned.' 
'Ugh, it stinks! Remove it from here, woman!' 
Ginger stiffened and noiselessly opened his bloody mouth. He no longer felt the broom 
which the lady of the house thanked him with for his eleven years of catching mice. He was 
expelled from the house, dying in a gutter full of suds and urine. Dying and also wishing 
those ungrateful people would also fall ill. To suffer as much as he was. 
His last wish was soon fulfilled. On a large scale. A scale so large a cat's mind could not 
even imagine. 
The woman, who expelled Ginger out into the gutter, paused and pulled her skirt up so 
she could scratch above her knee. It itched. 
A flea had bitten her. 
 
*** 
 
The stars twinkled brightly over Elskerdeg. The sparks from the fire vanished into this 
background. 
'Neither the peace of Cintra,' said the elf, 'nor the more pompous parade at Novigrad can 
be considered a turning point or milestone. What are their meaning? Governments do not 
create history with revenues and decrees and no one will accept their authority as truth. One 
of the brighter manifestation of human arrogance is your so-called historiography, trying to 
deliver opinions and verdicts on "past events" as you call them. This is typical of you 
humans, who nature has given an existence as fleeting as that of an insect or an ant, with your 
ridiculous life-spans under a hundred years. Your fleeting existence is trying to adapt to the 
complexity of the world. You refuse to take note that history is a process that constantly 
continues and never ends; it cannot be divided into sections from here to here, from date to 
date. It is not impossible to define history , let alone change it, by a proclamation by a 
monarch. Even if you win the war.' 

'Do not undertake a philosophical discourse,' the pilgrim said. 'As I said, I am a simple 
man. I will, however, draw attention to two things. Firstly, a short life protects us against 
decadence, forcing people to live intensely and fully to take advantage of every moment of 
life and enjoy it. I speak as a human being, but that same thought probably occurred to the 
long lived elves who were going off to fight in the Scoia'tael commandos. Correct me if I'm 
wrong.' 
The pilgrim waited a reasonable amount of time, but no one corrected him. 
'Secondly,' he continued, 'it seems to me that the governments, thought not being able to 
change history, can with their interference create the illusion which is quite convincing. They 
have the tools and the methods.' 
'Oh yes,' said the elf, turning his face away. 'The powerful have tools and methods. And 
there is no arguing with them.' 
 
*** 
 
The galley, bumped against the rail of the pier that was covered in piles of seaweed and 
shells. The moorings were thrown. There were shouts, oaths and commands. 
Gulls collected garbage that floated on the surface of the water. On the shore a crowd was 
waiting –mostly soldiers. 
'End of the lines, elves,' said the Nilfgaardian commander. 'We are in Dillingen. The 
soldiers are waiting for you.' 
He was right, they were waiting for them. 
None of the elves – and certainly not Faoiltiarna – did not believe the assurances that they 
would receive fair trails and amnesty. The Scoia'tael officers from the Vrihedd brigade did 
not have any false hopes about the fate that awaited them after the Yaruga. Most were 
reconciled, stoically accepting it and resigned themselves. They were convinced that nothing 
else could surprise them. 
They were wrong. 
They were shoved from the galley. Their chains rattled noisily. They were driven down 
the pier and led to a boardwalk, between two rows of armed soldiers. There were civilians 
there too, whose quick eyes jumped from one prisoners face to another. 
They will carry out the selection, thought Faoiltiarna. He was not mistaken. The chances 
of his scarred face being overlooked were not possible. 
'Isengrim Faoiltiarna. The Iron Wolf. What a nice surprise!' 
The soldiers dragged him out of the crowd of prisoners. 
'Va Faill,' Coinneach Da Reo called after him, who was also identified and dragged off 
by other men who wore the bade of the red eagle of Redania. 'Se'ved, caerme se dea!' 
'You'll see him,' growled the civilian who had picked out Faoiltiarna, 'but only in hell! 
They are already waiting for him in Drakenborg. Wait! Isn't that Riordain? Take him!' 
The next to be selected was Angus Bri Cri. 
They had only selected three of them. Only three. 
Faoiltiarna realised what was happening and suddenly, to his surprise, he began to feel 
afraid. 
'Va Faill!' Angus Bri Cri shouted, as he was dragged away with his other brethren. 'Va 
Faill, fraeren!' 
A soldier pushed him brutally. 
 They did not take them far. They came to a hut close to the marina. Just off the dock, 
which swayed with a forest of masts. 

The civilian nodded. Faoiltiarna was pushed up against a pole, under a beam over which 
they had thrown a rope. They began to attach an iron hook to the rope. Riordain and Angus 
sat beside him on a bench. 
'Mister Riordain, Mister Bri Cri,' said the civilian coldly. 'You have been covered by the 
amnesty. The court has decided to be gracious. Justice must be satisfied, however,' he added 
without waiting for a response. 'for the families for those you have killed. The verdict has 
been handed down.' 
Both elves did not have time to scream. From behind them a noose was thrown around 
their necks and pulled. They fell off of the bench and were dragged across the floor. With 
their hands cuffed they were unable to loosen the ropes. Executioners knelt on their chests. 
Knives flashed, drawing blood. The noose was not able to mute the sounds that made hair 
stand on end. 
It took a long time. It always did. 
'Your verdict, Mister Faoiltiarna,' said a third civilian to the elf, 'has come with an 
additional specialty. Something extra...' 
Faoiltiarna was not going to wait for any specialty. The locked handcuffs, which he had 
worked on for the last two nights, now opened as if by magic. 
A terrible blow from the heavy chain toppled both of the soldiers guarding him. 
Faoiltiarna next jumped up and hit a civilian in the face with his chains, then jumped through 
a small window covered in cobwebs, sweeping away the glass and frame, and leaving 
remains of his blood and shreds of his clothes. 
He clattered onto the planks of the pier. He tumbled, rolled and dived into the water, 
among the fishing boats and barges. The thick chains which were still attached to his right 
wrist, dragged him to the bottom. Faoiltiarna fought with all his strength to fight for his life, 
that until recently he thought he hadn't cared about. 
'Catch him!' the soldiers tore out of the shed. 'Catch him! Kill him!' 
'There!' shouted others, coming from further down the pier. 'To the boats!' 
'Shoot him!' shouted the civilian hoarsely, trying to stem the blood with both hands that 
flowed from his eye. 'Kill him!' 
He heard the click of crossbows. Gulls flew past, squealing. 
The dirty water between the barges began to spay with the impact of arrows. 
 
*** 
 
'Hurray!' The parade was lengthening and the multitudes of Novigrad were showing 
symptoms of fatigue and hoarseness. 'Hurray!' 
'Glory to the kings!' 
Philippa Eilhart looked around, making sure that no one unauthorised was listening and 
leaned in towards Dijkstra. 
'What did you want to talk to me about?' 
The spy also looked around. 
'The assassination of King Vizimir in July last year.' 
'I'm listening' 
'The half-elf who murdered the king,' Dijkstra lowered his voice even more, 'was 
definitely crazy. But he was not alone.' 
'What are you saying?' 
'Quiet,' hissed Dijkstra. 'Hush, Phil.' 
'Do not call me Phil. Do you have evidence? What? From where?' 
'You'd be surprised, Phil, if I told you where. When can I expect an audience with Your 
Ladyship?' 

Philippa Eilhart's eyes were like two black bottomless lakes. 
'Soon, Dijkstra.' 
Bells rang. The crowd cheered hoarsely. The troops marched. The petals of flowers fell 
like snowflakes on the pavement of Novigrad. 
 
*** 
 
'Are you still writing?' 
Ori Reuven flinched and made a splash. He had served Dijkstra for nineteen years, but he 
was still not used to the stealthy movements of his boss, his sudden appearance and where or 
how he did it. 
'Good evening, ahem, ahem, my lord...' 
'Shadow People,' Dijkstra read the front of the manuscript that he had taken from the 
table. 'Or the story of His Majesty's Secret Service, written by Oribasius Giafranco Paolo 
Reuven, law grad... Oh, Ori. At your age, such nonsense...' 
'Ahem, ahem...' 
'I came to say goodbye, Ori.' 
Reuven looked at him in amazement. 
'You see, my faithful friend,' said the spy, without waiting for the clerk to cough, 'I am 
old, and besides that, I am stupid. I said a word to one person. Only one. And only one word. 
It was one word too many, and one person too many. Pay attention, Ori. Do you hear?' 
Ori Reuven rolled his astonished eyes and shook his head. Dijkstra was silent for a 
moment. 
'You do not hear,' he said after a moment. 'And I hear them. In the corridors. Rats running 
around the city of Tretogor. Here we have them. Approaching on their soft little paws.' 
 
*** 
 
They emerged from the darkness of the shadows. Black, masked and fast as rats. The 
guards and sentries in the antechamber succumbed without a cry to the lightning strikes of 
their stilettos with narrow angular edges. 
Blood ran over the floor of the Palace of Tretogor, on its swept and stain wooden floors, 
seeping into the rare carpets from Vengerberg. 
They came down all corridors, leaving a trail of corpses. 
'There,' said one, pointing to a door. His voice was muffled by a scarf that covered his 
face up to his eyes. 'Through there. Through the office where old Reuven works.' 
'There is no escape,' said the one who was in charge, his eyes shone through the velvet 
masks openings. 'Behind the desk is a blind room, it does not even have a window.' 
'All the corridors are covered. All the doors and all the windows. He cannot escape. He is 
in our trap.' 
'Forward!' 
The door swung open and weapons gleamed. 
'Death! Death to the murderous torturer!' 
'Ahem, ahem?' Ori Reuven rolled his myopic and fearful eyes. 'What do you want? How 
can I, ahem, ahem, help you, gentlemen?' 
The murderers went to the door to Dijkstra's private chamber rushing around the room 
like rats, penetrating every nook and cranny. They flew over the floor, picking at tapestries, 
painting and panels. With their stilettos they tore the curtains and upholstery. 
'He's gone!' shouted one, running from the office. 'He's gone!' 

'Where is he?' asked the leader, leaning over Ori and drilling him with a look from behind 
the holes of his black mask. 'Where is that bloody dog?' 
'Not here,' said Ori Reuven, without fear. 'You can see that for yourself.' 
'Where is he? Speak up! Where is he?' 
'I don't know, ahem, ahem,' Ori coughed. 'Am I my brother's keeper?' 
'You will die, old man!' 
'I am an old man. I'm sick. And very tired. Ahem, ahem. I do not have any fear of your 
knifes.' 
The murderers left the room at a run. And disappeared as quickly as they appeared. 
They did not kill Ori Reuven. They were following orders. And among those orders 
where nothing concerning Ori Reuven. 
Oribasius Giafranco Paolo Reuven, spent six years in various prisons, interrogated 
repeatedly by successive judges, who questioned him on various topics, which often did not 
seem to make any sense. 
After six years he was released. At that time he was very ill. Scurvy had left him without 
teeth, anaemia hairless, glaucoma sightless and asthma without breath. 
During the interrogation they broke the fingers on both hands. 
He lived for less than a year in the wild. He died in a temple hospice. In misery. 
Forgotten. 
The manuscript of his book Shadow People, or the story of His Majesty's Secret Service 
disappeared without a trace. 
 
*** 
 
The sky was getting light to the east, the tops of the trees had a pale aura that heralded 
dawn. 
There had been silence around the bonfire for a long time. the pilgrim, the elf and the 
tracker watched the dying fire and said nothing. 
Elskerdeg was again silent. The howling spectre had moved on, tired of howling at them, 
having finally understood that the three individuals sitting around the fire had seen too many 
horrors to worry about a single spectre. 
'If we are to travel together,' Boreas Mun said suddenly, his eyes still lingering on the 
embers of the fire, glowing ruby-red, 'we ought to overcome our misgivings. Leave behind 
everything that happened. the world has changed. We have a new life ahead of us. Something 
ends, something begins... We hoped...' 
He paused and coughed. He was not used to talking about these things and was afraid of 
ridicule. But his companions were not taking it as a joke or laughing. On the contrary, Boreas 
felt warmth emanating from them. 
'We hoped that beyond Elskerdeg Pass,' he continued, 'that the we will be safer in 
Zerrikania or Haakland. We expect a long and dangerous journey. If we are going to explore 
it together... we must overcome our misgivings. My name is Boreas Mun.' 
The pilgrim with the brimmed hat stood, straightening his powerful frame, and shook the 
outstretched hand towards him. The elf also rose. A strange grimace appeared on his macabre 
disfigured face. 
After shaking hands with the tracker, the pilgrim and the elf also shook hands. 
'The world has changed,' said the pilgrim. 'Something ends. I'm Sigi Reuven.' 
'Something begins,' the elf with the scarred face grimaced in what, according to all 
indications, was a smile. 'My name is... Wolf Isengrim.' 
They shook hands quickly. forcefully, even with abruptness. 

For a moment it seemed like a preamble to a battle, more than a gesture of harmony. But 
only for a moment. The wood in the fire threw up sparks, celebrating the event with lively 
fireworks. 
'The evil take me,' grinned Boreas Mun, 'if it's not the beginning of a beautiful friendship.' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

...As well as many of the other faithful, St. Philippa was also besmirched with betraying 
the Kingdom, inducing riots and plotting a coup. Willemer, a heretic and sectarian, 
unlawfully appointed himself the title of archpriest, and ordered St. Philippa to be thrown 
into a dark dungeon, and to plague her with cold and hunger, until she confessed to her sins 
of which she was accused and repented. Also various instruments of torture were used to try 
and break her spirit. But ST. Philippa with distain, spit in his face and accused him of 
sodomy. 
The heretic had her disrobed and whipped her with barbed wire and placed sharp 
splinters under her nails. While unceasingly preaching about his faith and denouncing the 
Goddess. But St. Philippa laughed at him and recommended to him to heal his sick mind. 
Willemer then gave the order to have her taken to the rack and stretched, while tearing 
her body with sharp hooks and burning her with candles. Although thus tormented, St. 
Philippa showed no weakness in body and indeed her resistance and endurance seemed 
almost superhuman. The executioner's arms went limp and with fear they retreated from her. 
Then the filthy heretic, Willemer, began to threaten them and told them to continue the 
torment. They burned St. Philippa with red-hot irons, pulled her limbs out of their joints and 
pulled at her breasts with blacksmith tongs. And although she passed away from this torment, 
she confessed nothing. 
The shameless heretic Willemer, we read in the books of our holy fathers, later suffered 
for this punishment and it was that lice and worms began to eat him alive, his entrails rotted 
away and he died miserably. His carcass carried with it a foul stench and nobody wanted to 
bury him, and so he was dropped in a swamp. 
For the suffering and death of St. Philippa the eternal memory of a martyr's crown 
rightfully belongs. Let us give the Great Mother Goddess praise for her lessons and 
teachings. Amen. 
 
The life of St. Philippa, martyr of Mons Calvus, 
From the Book of Martyrs compiled in the Breviary of Tretogor, 
For the contemplation of the holy fathers and mothers. 
 
 

Chapter Eleven 
 
 
They galloped at breakneck speeds like madmen. They rode through vibrant spring days. 
The horses were flying, and people who were toiling, straightened their bent necks and backs 
and could not believe their eyes – did they just see riders or ghosts? 
 They galloped at night, in the dark, damp nights and through the warm rain. People 
awoke in bed and looked around terrified, fighting against the pain that grew in them, in their 
throats and chests. They jumped out of bed at the sound of the pounding of the shutters, the 
crying of the children and the howls of the dogs. They peered through the windows, not 
believing their eyes – were these riders or ghosts? 
In Ebbing stories began to circulate about the three demons. 
 
*** 
 
The trio of riders appeared suddenly, out of nowhere, as if by magic, catching by surprise 
The Lame, who had no opportunity to escape. Neither did he have time to turn for help. More 
than five hundred paces separated the cripple from the first row of house of the village. Even 
if it were closer, the cripple would receive no help from the residents of Jealousy. It was 
siesta time, which in this sleepy hamlet usually lasted from late morning to early evening. 
Aristotle Bobeck, nicknamed the Lame, a local beggar and philosopher knew that during 
siesta time the villagers would not respond anything. 
The riders were three. Two women and a man. The man had white hair and a sword lying 
across his back. One of the women was dressed in black and white and had inky black, curly 
hair. The youngest, had ashen hair and a disfiguring scar on her cheek. She rode a beautiful 
black mare. The Lame had a sense of seeing the horse before. 
The youngest girl spoke first. 
'Are you from here?' 
'I did nothing,' said the Lame, his teeth chattering. 'I collect morels here. Have pity, do 
not hurt a cripple.' 
'Are you from here?' she repeated, her green eyes flashing with warning. 
The Lame started to cringe. 
'Yes, my lady,' he said. 'I come from here, from Brika. I mean, Jealousy. I was born here 
and here I will surely die...' 
'Were you here last summer and fall?' 
'Where else would I be?' 
'Do not answer me with questions!' 
'I was here, my lady.' 
The black mare shook its head and pricked up its ears. The cripple felt the glares from the 
white haired and the black haired woman sting like thorns. He feared the white haired man 
the most. 
'Last year,' the girl with the scar told the cripple, 'in September, more specifically 
September ninth, during the first quarter of the moon, six young people were murdered here. 
Four boys... And two girls. Do you remember this?' 
The Lame swallowed. He suspected for some time, now he was sure. 
The girl had changed. It was not just the scar on her face. She was not the same now as 
she was back then when she was tied to the pole and Bonhart forced her to watch as he cut 
the heads off of the Rats. Not the same as when she was forced to undress in the Chimera's 
Head Inn and the Bounty Hunter beat her. Those eyes... Those eyes had changed. 

'Speak!' snapped the woman with the black hair. 'Tell us what we ask!' 
'I remember, my lady,' said the Lame. 'I remember the six kids being killed. Last year it 
was. In September.' 
The girl was silent for a while. Not looking at him but at some point in the distance, 
above his shoulder. 
'So, you most likely know...' she said at last, with effort, 'where the young ones where 
buried. At the bottom of which stockade... under which dumpster or what dunghill... Or if the 
bodies were burned... If they were taken to the forest and left for the foxes and wolves... Take 
me there. Do you understand?' 
'I understand, my lady. Follow me, it is a short walk.' 
He limped forward and felt the hot breath of the horses on the nape of his neck. He never 
looked up. Something told him that he should not. 
'Here we are,' he pointed after a while. 'This is our village cemetery. And here are the 
ones that you asked about, Lady Falka.' 
She took a deep breath. The Lame look at her to see the expression on her face. Black-
hair and white-hair were silent, their faces like stone. She stared at the long low mound of the 
common grave, neat, tidy and topped with sandstone slabs. The spruce that had adorned the 
mound was discoloured and the flowers that someone had placed here long ago were now dry 
and yellowish. 
The girl jumped down from her horse. 
'Who?' the girl asked quietly, still staring at the mound. 
'Well,' the Lame cleared his throat, 'a lot of the locals from Jealousy contributed. But 
mostly it was the widow Goulue and young Nycklar. The widow has always been a good and 
kind woman. And Nycklar... he was haunted by terrible dreams. Until he gave the dead a 
proper burial.' 
'Where can I find the widow and Nycklar?' 
The Lame was silent for a long moment. 
'The widow is here buried behind that twisted birch,' he said finally, looking fearlessly 
into the green eyes of the girl. 'She was taken by pneumonia this winter. And Nycklar was 
drafted into the army. We heard that he supposedly died in the war.' 
'I had forgotten,' she whispered. 'Forgotten that their fate had been linked to mine.' 
She approached the mound and knelt, or rather fell to the ground. She bent low, almost 
touching her face to the sandstone slabs. The Lame noticed that the white haired man made a 
motion as if to dismount, but the dark-haired lady caught him by the arm and held him with a 
gesture and a gaze. 
The horses snorted, tossing their heads and rattling their bridles. 
For a long time the girl knelt over the graves, he lips moving in a silent litany. She rose, 
faltered. The Lame inadvertently caught her elbow. She started strongly, and yanked her arm 
away. She looked at him angrily through her tears. But did not say a word. She even nodded 
with thanks when he held her stirrup. 
'Well, my lady Falka,' he dared. 'The strange wheel of destiny is turning. You were at 
that time in a dreadful position. Few of us here in Jealousy thought that you'd escape with 
your life. And here you are today, alive and well, while Goulue and Nycklar are in the other 
world. Who can you express your gratitude to for the grave...' 
'My name is not Falka,' she said sharply. 'My name is Ciri. And in regards to my 
gratitude...' 
'You can feel honoured because of her,' the dark-haired one spoke chillingly, making the 
Lame shiver. 'For her grace, for humanity has come to you all, to your entire village, and that 
is your reward. And you do not know how big that is.' 
 

*** 
 
On the ninth of April, shortly after midnight, the first inhabitants of Claremont awakened 
to a bright red glow flickering through the widows of their homes. The rest of the inhabitants 
of the town rushed out of bed to screaming, a commotion and the ringing of an alarm bell. 
Only one of the buildings were on fire. A large wooden building of the former temple, 
once dedicated to a deity, whose name was not even remembered by the oldest of old women. 
The temple, had now converted into a amphitheatre, which occasionally held circus 
spectacles, fighting and other diversions used to pull the Claremont villagers out of boredom, 
melancholy and lethargy. 
The amphitheatre was now in flames and shaking with explosions. From all the windows 
shot tongues of flames. 
'Put it out! Roared the owner of the amphitheatre, a merchant named Houvenaghel, 
running about and waving his hands, his powerful paunch shaking. He was in a nightcap and 
a heavy fur-lined coat which he had thrown on over his dressing gown. He ran barefoot 
through the mud in the streets. 
'Put it out! Men! Get water!' 
'This is the punishment of the gods,' said one old lady. 'For the grievances that took place 
in their former abode.' 
'Aye, aunt. It certainly is.' 
From the burning building radiated heat which evaporated puddles of stinking horse 
urine, with hissing sparks. Suddenly a wind sprang up. 
'Put it out! Houvenaghel screamed wildly, seeing the fire spread to the brewery and 
granary. 'Men! Get buckets for the water!' 
There was no shortage of volunteers. Claremont even had its own fire department, 
equipped and maintained by Houvenaghel. They did everything in their power to put out the 
fire. But it was useless. 
'We cannot handle it,' the fire brigade commander groaned, rubbing his soot smeared 
face. 'This is no ordinary fire... It is a fire from hell.' 
'Black magic...' coughed another fireman. 
From the burning building they head an ominous creaking and the sound of rafters and 
beams cracking. There was a thunderous rumble and sparks and flames shot high into the sky. 
The roof broke and fell into the arena. The whole building bent as if bowing to an audience. 
Then the walls collapsed. 
With effort the fire-fighters and volunteers managed to save part of the granary and about 
a quarter of the brewery. 
Dawn came smelly and pungent. 
Houvenaghel sat in the mud and ashes, his nightcap and gown sooty and dirty. He cried 
bitterly, pouting like a child. Naturally he had insured the theatre, the brewery and the 
granary. The problem was that the insurance company was owned by Houvenaghel. Nothing, 
not even tax fraud, could compensate for his losses. 
 
*** 
 
'Now where?' Geralt asked, looking at the column of smoke that clouded the rosy 
morning sky. 'Where else do you want to visit, Ciri?' 
She looked at him and he soon regretted asking. Suddenly he wanted to hug her, he 
dreamed of holding her in his arms, cuddling her and caressing her hair. To protect her. And 
never allow her to be alone. To not suffer any more evil. And that nothing would happen to 
her that would make him crave revenge. 

Yennefer was silent. Yennefer was often silent lately. 
'Now,' Ciri said quietly, 'we go to a village call Unicorn. The name comes from the straw 
unicorn that protects the town. A poor and ridiculous puppet. I would like that, as a reminder 
of what happened there, the inhabitants have... if not valuable, at least a more dignified idol. I 
would like to ask for your help, Yennefer, because without magic...' 
'Sure, Ciri. What next?' 
'The Pereplut Swamps. I am confident that I will be able to... find a cabin in the middle of 
the swamp. I will find the remains of a man. I want those remains to rest in a decent tomb.' 
Geralt said nothing. But didn't look away. 
'After,' continued Ciri, without the slightest difficulty withstanding his look, 'the village 
of Dun Dare. The local tavern has probably been burned and it is possible that the innkeeper 
has been murdered. It is my fault; I was blinded by hatred and revenge. If he had a family, I'll 
try and make it up to the survivors.' 
'You cannot make it up,' Geralt said, still looking at her. 
'I know,' she said sharply, almost angrily. 'But I will stand in front of them with humility. 
I will remember the look in their eyes. I hope that the memory of those eyes will protect me 
from similar mistakes. Do you understand, Geralt?' 
'I understand, Ciri,' Yennefer said. 'Both of us, we understand you very well, my dear. 
Let's go.' 
 
*** 
 
The horses ran as if carried by the wind of a magic storm. Alarmed by the trio of riders, a 
pilgrim on the road lifted his head. A merchant with a wagonload of goods, a felon fleeing 
the law, a settler who had been thrown out of his land. A bum looked up, a deserter and a 
wander with a staff. They raised their heads, astonished and frightened. Not believing their 
eyes. 
In Geso in Ebbing, stories began to circulate. About the Wild Hunt. About three ghostly 
riders. Rumours were invented and spun in the evenings, in smoky pubs that smelled of fried 
onions and butter and in meeting rooms and huts. Rumours were invented, told and 
exaggerated. A great war of heroism and chivalry, of honour and friendship as well as 
meaningless treachery. With sincere and faithful love, which always wins out in the end, 
about crime and punishment of criminals that are always struck by justice. 
The truth, as always rises up, like oil on water. 
They invented lies and enjoyed these fables. They revelled in pure fantasy. Because out in 
the real world, everything worked out the opposite. 
The legend grew. People listened as if in a trance, captivated by the emphatic words of 
the storyteller who told the story of the witcher and the sorceress. The story of the Tower of 
the Swallow. Of Ciri, the witcheress with the scarred face. Of Kelpie, the magical black mare. 
Of the Lady of the Lake. That came many years later. 
But for now, like a seed soaked by rain, the legend sprouted and grew among the people. 
 
*** 
 
They did not realise when May came. They first noticed at night time, when they saw the 
bright, distance fires of Belleteyn. When Ciri, with strange excitement jumped onto Kelpie's 
back and galloped towards the fires, Geralt and Yennefer took advantage of the intimate 
moment. 
After removing the necessary clothes, they made love on a sheepskin on the ground. They 
made love urgently, in silence, without words. They made love quickly, however. 

And then along came the climax and fulfilment, trembling and kissing each other's tears, 
amazed at that fate had given them time to express their love. 
 
*** 
 
'Geralt?' 
'I'm listening, Yen.' 
'When we... When we were not together, where you with other women?' 
'No.' 
'Not once?' 
'Not once.' 
'Your voice did not tremble. So I do not know why I don't believe you.' 
'I am only for you, Yen.' 
'Now I do.' 
 
*** 
 
 
Without realising it, May had arrived. Dandelions grew in the meadows and the trees 
were white and fluffy and thick with flowers. The oak, too noble to rush, remained dark, but 
on the edges, green leaves were beginning to show. 
 
*** 
 
One night they spent under the open sky, they witcher awakened from a nightmare. It 
seemed as if he was paralysed and helpless, a great grey owl was clawing at his face and with 
its sharp hooked beak, trying to peck his eyes out. He awoke. But he was not sure if he had 
moved from one nightmare to another. 
Over their encampment poured bright light that startled the horses. In the midst of the 
brightness a room was visible – a columned hall in a castle. Around a table sat ten figures. 
Ten women. 
He could hear words. Snippets of sentences. 
'...Bring her to us, Yennefer. We command you.' 
'You cannot give me orders. You cannot give orders to her. You don't have any power 
over her!' 
'I'm not afraid of them, mother. They cannot do anything. If they wish, I will stand before 
them. 
'We will meet on June first. At the new moon. We command you both to appear. We 
warn you, we'll punish any disobedience.' 
'I will come now, Philippa. Let her stay with him. Don't leave him alone. Just a couple of 
days. I will come immediately. As a show of good faith. I have vowed, Philippa. Please.' 
The light began to throb. The horses snorted , crazed and kicked at the ground. 
The witcher awoke. This time for real. 
 
*** 
 
The next day Yennefer confirmed his fears. After a long meeting, which they excluded 
Ciri from. 
'I'm leaving,' she said dryly. 'I have to. Ciri will stay with you. For a time. Then it will 
come time for her to leave as well. And then we'll all meet again.' 

Ne nodded. Reluctantly. He'd had enough of nodding silently, agreeing with every 
decision. But he nodded. One way or another, he loved her. 
'It is imperative,' she said mildly, 'that you not resist. Nor can you postpone it. It is 
necessary to comply. I'm doing this for your own good. And especially for the good of Ciri.' 
He nodded. 
'Until we meet again,' she said almost tenderly, 'I'll make it up to you, Geralt. There has 
been too much silence between us. Now instead of nodding, give me a hug and kiss.' 
He obeyed. One way or another, he loved her. 
 
*** 
 
'Now where?' Ciri asked, she had barely spoken since Yennefer had disappeared with a 
flash through her portal. 
'The river...' Geralt coughed, conquering the pain under his breast bone. 'The river in 
front of us is called the Sansretour. We are going upstream. To a place that I want to show 
you. It is a land of fairytales.' 
Ciri frowned. Her saw her clench her fists. 
'All fairytales,' she said, end badly. There does not exist a fairytale land.' 
'There does. You'll see.' 
 
*** 
 
It was the day after the full moon, when they saw Toussaint, bathed in green and the 
sunlight. When they saw the hills, slopes and vineyards. The roofs of towers and castles, 
shining in the morning sun. 
The view did not disappoint. It was impressive. As it always was. 
'This is beautiful,' Ciri said with delight. 'Wow! Those castles are like toys... Like glazed 
decorations on a cake3... It is tempting to lick!' 
'The architecture is by Faramond,' Geralt wisely instructed. 'Wait until you seen up close 
the palaces and gardens of Beauclair.' 
'Palace? We're going to the palace? You know the local king?' 
'Duchess.' 
'The Duchess,' she said wryly, watching him intently from beneath her fringe, 'doesn't 
have green eyes? Short black hair?' 
'No,' he snapped, looking away. 'She look completely different. I don't know where you 
got that idea...' 
'Let's not talk about it Geralt, all right? How do you know the local Duchess?' 
'As I said, I know her. A little bit. Not very well, if you're interested. But, I know the 
local prince consort or candidate for consort. You also know him, Ciri.' 
Ciri kicked Kelpie in the sides, making her dance in the road. 
'Don't make me suffer!' 
'Dandelion.' 
Dandelion? With the Duchess? How is that possible?' 
'It's a long story. We left him here, alongside his beloved. We promised him to visit on 
our return visit, when...' 
He paused and became serious. 
'There was nothing you could do,' Ciri said quietly. 'Do not torture yourself, Geralt. It's 
not your fault.' 
Yes it is my fault, he thought. Mine. Dandelion will ask. And I'll have to answer. Milva. 
Cahir. Regis. Angouleme. 

The sword of destiny cuts both ways. 
By all the gods, that's enough. Enough. We must end this once and for all! 
'Come on, Ciri.' 
'In these clothes?' she said. 'To the palace?' 
'I don't see anything wrong with our clothes,' he interrupted. 'We are not going to a ball. 
We can meet Dandelion in the stables.' He saw the look on her face and quickly added. 'I 
have to go down to the bank. I'll pick up some cash. In the squares and streets you'll find a 
lot of tailors and dressmakers. You can buy what you want and dress up how you please.' 
'Good,' she playfully cocked her head. 'You've got cash?' 
'You can buy yourself whatever you want,' he repeated. 'Even ermine. And basilisk 
shoes. I know a shoemaker, who should have some in stock.' 
'How did you make so much money?' 
'By killing. Let's go, Ciri, let's not waste time.' 
 
*** 
 
In the bank of Cianfanelli, Geralt requested a transfer, credit allocation and took some 
money. He wrote letters that were given to fast couriers that were riding for the Yaruga. He 
politely excused himself from the dinner invitation from the attentive and polite banker. 
Ciri waited in the street watching the horses. The street, which was empty a moment ago, 
was now swarming with people. 
'I think today is a holiday,' Ciri nodded with her head towards the square where the 
crowd was heading. 'Or a fair...' 
Geralt took a quick look. 
'That's not a fair.' 
'Ah...' Ciri stood up in her stirrups and looked around. 'So it's...' 
'A execution,' he confirmed. 'The most popular post-war entertainment. What are the 
reasons, Ciri?' 
'For desertion, treason, cowardice before the enemy,' she recited fluently. 'And for 
economic crimes.' 
'Supplying the army with mouldy biscuits,' said the witcher. 'During the war, an 
enterprising merchant can easily get into trouble.' 
'This does not look like the execution of a huckster,' Ciri pulled on Kelpie's reins, 
submerging herself in the middle of the crowd, 'Look, the scaffolding is covered with cloth 
and the executioner has a new, clean hood. He is executing someone important, perhaps a 
noble. So it could be cowardice in the face of the enemy...' 
'Toussaint,' Geralt shook his head, 'did not have an army that faced the enemy. No, Ciri, 
I guess this has to do with the economy. The condemned is probably guilty of some scam in a 
wine shop and damaged the foundation for the local economy. Let's go, Ciri. We don't need 
to watch this spectacle.' 
'How do you expect me to move?' 
Indeed, it was impossible to keep riding. They had become stuck in the crowd gathering 
in the square, and were unable to make their way to the other side of the market. 
Geralt looked back and swore. He discovered that they could not even turn around, people 
clogged the streets behind them. The crowd carried them like a river, but stopped in front of a 
solid wall of halberds standing around the gallows. 
'Here they come!' someone shouted and the crowd surged like a waved, picking up the 
cry. 'Here they come!' 
The pounding of hooves and the rattle of a cart were fully covered by the buzz of the 
crowd, which sounded like the hum of bumblebees. So they were caught completely by 

surprise by the appearance of a cart from an ally, drawn by two horses. On the cart, trying to 
maintain his balance with difficult was... 
'Dandelion...' Ciri groaned. 
Geralt suddenly felt ill. Very ill. 
'It's Dandelion,' Ciri said uneasily. 'It's him.' 
This is an injustice, thought the witcher. A damn injustice. This cannot be. This should not 
be. I know I was stupid and naive to believe that after all I had endured and experienced that 
destiny owed me. It was not only stupid, but egocentric. But I am aware, there is no need for 
destiny to persuade me. To prove it to me. Especially in this way. This is an injustice. 
'It cannot be Dandelion,' he said flatly, staring at Roach's mane. 
'It's him,' she said again. 'Geralt, we have to do something.' 
'What,' he asked bitterly. 'Tell me what?' 
The guard driving the cart treated Dandelion fairly, with surprising civility, without 
brutality, even differentially, as much as they could afford. At the foot of the steps to the 
gallows, they untied his hands. The poet nonchalantly scratched his ass and without hesitation 
began to climb the steps. 
One of the steps creaked suddenly and began to sag. Dandelion barely managed to keep 
his balance. 
'Damn!' he exclaimed. 'This needs to be fixed! You'll end up killing someone with these 
stairs! That would be a disaster!' 
Once Dandelion reached the gallows, two of the executioners henchmen in leather vests 
grabbed him. The executioner, a hulk with arms as wide as the bastions of a castle, watched 
the condemned through the slits cut in his hood. Nearby stood a man in rich, thought 
mournful black clothing. He face was no less mournful. 
'Citizens of Beauclair and people from the surrounding countryside,' he read in a troubled 
voice from parchment. 'Notice is hereby given that Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de 
Lettenhove, aka Dandelion...' 
'Pankratz what?' Ciri asked in a whisper. 
'...according to the Supreme Court ruling of this County has been found guilty of all 
crimes, offenses and misdeed of which he was accused, insulting Her Majesty, treason of the 
state and dishonouring the establishment of the nobility through perjury, libel, and slander, 
also for dissipation and indecency, furthermore, obscenity and whoredom. The Tribunal had 
decided that Viscount Julian et cetera, et cetera, his receive the following punishment – First, 
mortification of his coat of arms, a thick black line through his shield. Second, confiscation of 
all his property, both movable and immovable, including lands, forests, castles and palaces...' 
'Castles and palaces?' said the astonished witcher. 'What?' 
Dandelion snickered, making it blatantly clear what he thought of the judicial decree. 
'Third, the maximum penalty... our ladyship Anna Henrietta, Duchess of Toussaint and 
Castilian of Beauclair, has kindly switched the penalty for the above crimes, namely being 
dragged by horses and dismemberment, by substituting it for decapitation by the axe. Let 
justice be done!' 
From the crowd came a few incoherent cries. Women standing in the first row pretended 
to weep and lament. Adults lifted children in their arms or put them on their shoulders, that 
even the smallest child would not miss the upcoming spectacle. The executions assistants 
rolled a stump into the center of the scaffold covered with cloth. There was much excitement 
when someone swiped the wicker basket designed to collect the severed head, but another 
was soon found. 
At the foot of the scaffold four ragged urchins held out a scarf to collect the blood in. 
There was a great demand for this type of souvenirs, and good money could be earned. 
'Geralt,' Ciri said in a low voice. 'We have to so do something...' 

He did not answer. 
'I wish to speak to the people,' Dandelion said proudly. 
'Keep it short, Viscount.' 
The poet walked to the edge of the scaffold and raised his arms. The crowd began to 
murmur and grew still. 
'Hey, folks' Dandelion called. 'What's new? How are you?' 
'Well,' someone from the crowd said after a moment. 
'I'm glad,' nodded the poet. 'In that case we can begin.' 
'Master Executioner,' the bailiff said pathetically. 'Do your duty!' 
The executioner approached, and according to ancient custom, knelt and bowed his head 
hooded head to the condemned. 
'Forgive me, my good man,' he said gloomily. 
'I?' Dandelion said, surprised. 'You?' 
'Mhm.' 
'Not for anything in the world.' 
'Huh?' 
'I will not forgive you for anything in the world. Why should I? Hear that, joker! In a 
moment, you will cut off my head, and you want me to forgive you? Are you kidding me or 
what? Shame on you! In such a sad moment.' 
'But sir,' said the executioner. 'This is the custom... It is your last duty in the world... The 
condemned should forgive his executioner. Good lord, forgive me, please...' 
'No,' 
'No?' 
'No!' 
'I will not kill him,' said the executioner standing up. "If he will not forgive me, I will not 
do anything.' 
'Lord Viscount,' the bailiff took Dandelion by the elbow. 'Do not make trouble. The 
people are gathered, waiting... Forgive him, when he begs so nicely...' 
'I will not forgive him and that's it!' 
'Master executioner,' the bailiff said turning to the executioner. 'Can you behead him 
without his forgiveness? I'll repay you...' 
The executioner wordlessly held out his open hand, as wide as a pan. The bailiff sighed, 
pulled out a purse and poured some coins into the hand. The executioner looked and then 
clenched his fist. He rolled his eyes within his hood. 
'Okay,' he agreed, he hid the money and walked back over to the condemned. 'Knee 
down, stubborn sir. Put your head on the block. If I want I can be stubborn and mischievous 
too. I can cut twice what I can do in one. Or in three.' 
'I forgive you!' Dandelion promptly shouted. 'I forgive you!' 
'Thank you.' 
'Since you have been given your pardon,' said the mournful bailiff, 'return my money.' 
'The executioner turned on his heel and raised his axe. 
'Move aside, sir,' he said in an ominously hollow voice. 'You know that according to the 
rules that you must not interfere with the performance of the execution. When I chop the 
head, blood flies.' 
The bailiff backed away so rapidly that he almost fell from the scaffold. 
'Is this right?' Dandelion knelt and stretched his neck across the stump. 'Master? Hey, 
Master!' 
'What do you want?' 
'You were kidding, right? When you said you wouldn't behead me with the first blow? 
You'll only cut once? Right?' 

The executioner's eyes sparkled. 
'It'll be a surprise,' he growled ominously. 
The crowd suddenly parted before a rider who burst into the square on a lathered horse. 
'Halt!' the rider called, waving a large roll of parchment with a red seal. 'Stop the 
execution! On the orders of our Lady Duchess! Stop the execution! I'm here to bring 
clemency for the accused.' 
'Not again,' growled the executioner lowering his axe sullenly. 'Another pardon? This is 
getting boring.' 
'A pardon! A reprieve!' roared the crowd. The women in the first row started wailing 
even louder. The children whistled and booed with disappointment. 
'Hush, people!' shouted the bailiff and unrolled the parchment. 'This is the will of 
Duchess Anne Henrietta! In her immense goodness and to celebrate the peace of Cintra Her 
Ladyship has waived all charges against Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and 
pardons him from execution...' 
'My Dear Ermine,' Dandelion said, smiling broadly. 
'...And orders that the above Viscount Julian et cetera promptly leave the capital and the 
County of Toussaint and never return, because his presence is no longer welcome here, and 
her Ladyship never wants to lay eyes on him again. You are free, Viscount.' 
'What about my property?' the troubadour said indignantly. 'My lands, forests and castles 
you can have, but let me take my lute, my horse, Pegasus, my one hundred and forty 
ducatsand eighty dimes, my cloak lined with duck, my ring...' 
'Shut up!' shouted Geralt, pushing through the crowd on his horse. 'Shut up and get down 
here you mutton head! Ciri, clear us a way! Dandelion! Did you hear what I said?' 
'Geralt? Is that you?' 
'Stop your questions and get down from there right now! Come here! Jump up!' 
They walked through the crowd and went into a gallop down a close alley. Ciri went first, 
followed by Geralt and Dandelion riding Roach. 
'What's the rush?' the bard asked from behind the witcher. 'No one is persecuting us.' 
'For now. The Duchess is likely to change her mind and revoke what she previously 
decided. Admit it – you knew you were going to get a pardon?' 
'No, I didn't,' Dandelion muttered. 'But I counted on it. My Ermine has a good heart.' 
'Stop with the Ermine, dammit. You just got pardoned for insults against Her Majesty, 
you don't want a recurrence.' 
The troubadour was silent. Ciri stopped Kelpie and waited for them. When they arrived, 
she saw Dandelion wiping tears from his eyes. 
'Look at him,' she said. 'A viscount...' 
'Let's go,' the witcher urged. 'Let's get out of this town and out of the borders of this 
lovely country. While there is still time.' 
 
*** 
 
When they were almost to the border of Toussaint, in sight of the mountain Gorgon, And 
official overtook them. He brought Pegasus, a saddle, a lute and Dandelion's ring. He did not 
listen to the question on the hundred and forty ducats. 
He ignored the bard's plea to give a kiss to the Duchess with a straight face. 
They followed the course of the Sansretour, until it became a small stream. The bypassed 
Belhaven. 
They camped in the valley of Newi. In a place that the witcher and the bard remembered 
well. 
Dandelion lasted a long time without asking questions. 

But finally they had to tell him everything. And sit with him in silence. During the hard, 
painful silence that reigned, when all was said. 
 
*** 
 
At noon the next day they were on the slopes of Riedburne. The peace was prevailing 
throughout the area. People were trusting and accommodating. They felt safe. 
At the crossroads gallows were laden with corpses. 
They passed through towns on their way towards Dol Angra. 
'Dandelion,' Geralt just now noticed what he should have noticed a while ago. 'Your 
priceless tube! Your memoirs. The courier didn't bring it, it's still in Toussaint.' 
'I left it,' the poet said indifferently. 'In Ermine's dressing room, under a pile of coats, 
clothes and corsets. And they can stay there for centuries.' 
'Do you want to explain it?' 
'There's nothing to explain. In Toussaint I had enough time to carefully read everything 
that I had written.' 
'And what?' 
'I'll write it again. From the beginning.' 
'I understand,' said Geralt. 'You're a lousy writer as well as a royal favourite. To put it 
bluntly, what you touch you screw up. Half a century and you still have the possibility of 
correcting and re-writing, but not for the Duchess. What a shame, a lover driven away. Yes, 
yes, there is no reason to make faces! Being married to the Duchess of Toussaint was not 
written for you, Dandelion.' 
'That remains to be seen.' 
'Do not count on me.' 
'Nobody asked you anything. But I can tell you that my Ermine has a good heart, and is a 
very forgiving woman. It is true that she was unnerved when she caught me with the young 
Baroness Nique... But surely she has calmed down, she will realise that I was not made for 
monogamy. She'll forgive me and be waiting...' 
'You are hopelessly stupid,' Geralt said and Ciri nodded vigorously to indicate she felt 
the same way. 
'I will not argue with you,' Dandelion said, offended. 'It's an intimate matter. But I am 
sure that she will forgive me. I'll write a touching ballad or sonnet, I'll sent it to Toussaint 
and...' 
'Have mercy!' 
'Oh, you don't want to talk about it. Come on, let's go! Forward, Pegasus! Forward!' 
They rode. 
It was the month of May. 
 
*** 
 
'Because of you,' the witcher said reproachfully, 'we had to run away from Toussaint like 
outlaws or bandits. I did not have any time to see...' 
'Fringilla Vigo? You would not have seen her. She left shortly after your departure, In 
January. She simply disappeared.' 
'I did not mean her,' Geralt coughed, looking over at Ciri who was listening. 'I wanted to 
see Reynart. To introduce him to Ciri...' 
Dandelion bowed his head. 

'The good knight Reynart de Bois-Fresnes,' Dandelion said, 'fell in late February when 
facing some invaders near the border fortress of Vedette near the Cervantesa Pass. Anarietta 
bestowed on him posthumously...' 
'Shut up, please.' 
Dandelion was silent and incredibly obedient. 
 
*** 
 
May continued and grew. The intense yellow thistle in meadows disappeared, replaced by 
blooming, white, fluffy dandelions. 
It was very green and warm. The air, after brief thunderstorms became hot, dense and 
sticky as barley porridge. 
 
*** 
 
On the twenty-sixth of May they crossed the Yaruga on a new, white resin scented bridge. 
Remnants of the old bridge, black, burnt, charred piles were still visible in the water and on 
the shore. 
Ciri began to get restless. 
Geralt knew why. He knew her intentions, her plans and arrangement with Yennefer. He 
was ready. Yet the thought of the painful parting stung his heart. As if in his chest a 
poisonous scorpion had awakened. 
 
*** 
 
At the crossroads of the village of Koprivince, was an inn burned during the war and next 
to it stood a hundred year old oak, now in bloom. The population of the whole area, even 
from distant Spall, regularly used the oak tress low hanging branches to hung tablets and 
posters with all kinds of information. It served the people as communication. The tree was 
known as the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. 
'Ciri, you start from that side,' Geralt ordered dismounting form his saddle. 'Dandelion 
you look from the other side.' 
The branches draped with tablets, swayed in the light wind and clattered and bumped into 
each other. 
As was usual after a war, a lot of the messages were for missing family members. Quite a 
few of the messages were along the lines of – "Come back, all is forgiven," there were 
listings for erotic massage and related services in surrounding villages and towns and lots of 
news and advertising. 
Hung here and there were love letters next to denunciations, both signed and anonymous. 
They found there tablets containing philosophical considerations – either incomprehensible, 
absurd, obscene or disgusting. 
'Hey,' Dandelion called. 'The castle of Rastburg needs a witcher. They offer great 
rewards. Comfortable accommodation and delicious meals are provided. Any interest, 
Geralt?' 
'Not at all.' 
Ciri found the message she had been looking for. 
She announced to the witcher what he had long been expecting. 
 
*** 
 

'I'm going to Vengerberg, Geralt,' she repeated. 'Don't give me that look. You know that 
I have an obligation. Yennefer is calling me. She is waiting there.' 
'I know.' 
'And you are going to Rivia, to your secret meeting...' 
'It's a surprise,' he interrupted. 'It isn't a secret.' 
'Okay, a surprise. I meanwhile, will go to Vengerberg and solve everything, I'll pick up 
Yennefer and in six days we will see you in Rivia. I asked you not to give me that look. We 
do not have to say goodbye like it is forever. It will only be six days. Goodbye.' 
'Goodbye, Ciri.' 
'In Rivia, in six days,' she insisted once again, turning Kelpie about. 
She kicked her into a gallop and was quickly out of sight. Geralt felt as if icy claws were 
clawing at his stomach. 
'Six days,' Dandelion repeated thoughtfully. 'From here to Vengerberg and then back to 
Rivia... That will total about two hundred and fifty miles... That's impossible, Geratl. Of 
course, with that magical mare, she can travel three times faster than us. But even a magical 
mare must need to rest. And Ciri's mysterious issue must be resolved. Come on, its 
impossible...' 
'For Ciri,' the witcher cut him off, 'nothing is impossible.' 
'But...' 
'She is no longer the girl you knew,' Geralt did not let him finish. 
Dandelion was silent for a long time. 
'I have a strange feeling...' 
'Be quiet. Don't say anything. I'm begging you.' 
 
*** 
 
May ended. They were approaching the new moon, the moon was just a sliver. They rode 
towards the mountains visible on the horizon. 
 
*** 
 
It was a typical post-war landscape. Among the fields rose graves and burial mounds, in 
the lush spring grass were white skulls and skeletons. On the branches of trees hung corpses 
and along the road, waiting for the beggars to weaken, sat wolves. 
Grass did not grow on the vast stretches of blackness, where past fires had burned. 
Yet many of the villages and settlements, where only ruins had remained, had started to 
rebuild. Around them was the sounds of axes and hammers hammering and saws cutting. 
Near the ruins were women, working the scorched earth with their hoes. Some stumbling, 
dragged ploughs behind them, the straps cutting into their shoulders. 
 'I have a vague feeling, said Dandelion, 'that something is not as it should be. There's 
something missing... Do you have the same feeling, Geralt?' 
'Huh?' 
'Something here is not normal.' 
'Nothing here is normal, Dandelion. Nothing.' 
 
*** 
 
It was a hot night, black, with no wind, lit by only distant flashes of lightning and upset 
by the rumour of thunder. Geralt and Dandelion camped and watched the horizon to the west 

glow red with fires. It was not long until the breeze picked up and brought the smell of 
smoke. And snippets of sound. 
They heard women crying and the wailing of children and the sound of their murderers 
howling. 
Dandelion did not say anything, but kept throwing glances at the witcher. But the witcher 
did not move, did not even turn his head. His face was like stone. 
In the morning they went on their way. Rising above the forest was a wisp of smoke, 
which they did not look at. 
Later that day they encountered a column of settlers. 
 
*** 
 
The column moved in a long, slow march. They carried small bundles. They were 
completely silent. Men, boys, women, children. They did not utter a cry or a word of 
complaint. Not a cry or groan of despair. Their cries and despair were mirrored in their eyes. 
The empty eyes of aggrieved people. Deprived, battered and expelled. 
'Who are these people?' Dandelion said, not paying attention to the eyes of the officer 
who watched over the displaced people. 'Why are they forced to leave?' 
'Nilfgaardians,' replied a young lieutenant from his saddle, no older than eighteen. 
'Nilfgaardian settlers. They settled on our land like cockroaches. And we are sweeping them 
away like cockroaches as agreed in the peace treaty of Cintra.' 
He spat and looked disdainfully at the troubadour and the witcher. 
'And if it was up to me, I'd not let these bugs live.' 
'And if it was up to me,' said a sergeant with a grey moustache, regarding his youthful 
companion with disrespect, 'I'd let them work in peace on their farms and lands. I would 
never expel a good farmer from this country. I would love to see agriculture prosper. So we 
will not go hungry.' 
'You're a real blockhead, Sergeant,' the young Lieutenant scolded. 'They are of 
Nilfgaard! These people do not know our language, our culture or have our blood. For the 
small joy of having agriculture we would be taking a snake to our breast. We would have 
traitors ready to attack from behind. Or do you think this peace with the Black Ones will last 
forever. No, no, they go back to where they came from... Eh, soldier! There on goes with a 
cart! Grab him, quickly!' 
The order was carried out eagerly. With the help of fists, heels and sticks. 
 Dandelion coughed. 
The young officer measured they suspiciously. 
'You are not from Nilfgaard?' 
'Gods forbid,' swallowed the troubadour. 
Many of the women and children passing in front of them moved like puppets, with 
empty eyes, swollen faces and bruised bare legs showing through torn skirts. Some had to be 
supported as they walked. Dandelion looked at Geralt's face and began to panic. 
'It's time to be on our way,' he muttered. 'Farewell, gentlemen.' 
The young officer did not even turn his head, intrigued by monitoring the refugees. 
The column meandered slowly to the south. From somewhere behind them they heard a 
high, desperate scream from a female. 
'Geralt, no,' Dandelion whispered. 'Do not interfere, stay out of it...' 
The witcher turned and looked at the poet as if he did not know him. 
'Meddle in it?' he shrugged. 'Save someone? Give my life for noble principles and 
ideals? No, Dandelion, not anymore.' 
 

*** 
 
On a restless night, illuminated by lightning, the witcher again awakened from a dream. 
This time he was not sure if it was one hideous nightmare or if it was a series of nightmares. 
Again, over the remains of the fire a light arose, pulsating and frightening the horses. 
Again, inside that light appeared a castle, with columns and a table at which sat women. 
Two other women were there, standing calmly. One black and white and the other black 
and grey. 
Yennefer and Ciri. 
The witcher moaned in his sleep. 
 
*** 
 
Yennefer was right when she did not allow her to wear male clothing. Ciri would have 
felt foolish dressed as a boy among these elegant ladies. She was glad that she gave in to the 
combination of black and grey, it flattered her and she could fell the approval when they saw 
the puffy sleeves and clinched waist and the small brooch in the shape of a rose. 
'Come closer please.' 
Ciri shivered slightly. It was not just the sound of the voice. Yennefer, as it turned out, 
was right about her neckline. Ciri had insisted thought, and now she had the impression that 
she could feel a draft on her breast all the way down to her navel, and was covered in goose 
bumps. 
'Closer still,' said the dark-haired and dark-eyed woman whom Ciri remembered from the 
island of Thanedd. And though Yennefer had taught her all the names of the women she 
would meet in this castle, Ciri immediately though of her as Lady Owl. 
'We welcome you,' Lady Owl said. 'To the Lodge in Montecalvo, Ciri.' 
Ciri bowed as instructed by Yennefer, politely, but without lowering her eyes modestly 
like a maiden. 
It was answered with a sincere smile from Triss Merigold and a nod and a friendly look 
from Margarita Laux-Antille. The looks from the other women where hard as augers. As the 
blade of a piercing spear. 
'Sit down,' Lady owl nodded towards a seat. 'No, not you, Yennefer! Only her. You, 
Yennefer, are not an invited guest, but are summoned to be tried and punished as a 
wrongdoer. You'll stand for as long as it takes the Lodge to decide your fate.' 
In a twinkling of an eye, Ciri ended protocol. 
'In that case, I will stand also,' she said in a loud voice. 'I have not come as a guest. I too, 
was summoned to decide my fate. That's the first thing. The second thing is that Yennefer's 
fate is linked with mine. We are inextricably linked and that cannot be changed... With all 
due respect.' 
Margarita Laux-Antille smile and looked her in the eyes. The simple yet elegant, Assire 
var Anahid, a Nilfgaardian with a slightly aquiline nose, nodded and tapped her fingers gently 
on the table's surface. 
'Philippa,' said a woman with a silver fox boa around her neck. 'I think that in this 
respect we should not go to extremes. At this point it is not necessary. This is the round table 
of the Lodge, and all who sit at it are equals – even when one of us is on trial. I think that we 
can agree...' 
She did not finish, she glanced at all the sorceresses. One by one, they all nodded their 
heads in agreement – Margarita, Triss, Assire, Sabrina Glevissig, Keira Metz and both elves. 
Only the second Nilfgaardian, the dark-haired Fringilla Vigo did not give an affirmative nod, 
she was pale as death as she stared at Yennefer. 

'So be it,' Philippa Eilhart waved her hand. 'Sit, both of you. But know that I am against 
it. But the unity of the Lodge and its interests are most important. The Lodge is everything, 
the rest is nothing. I hope you understand, Ciri?' 
'Perfectly,' Ciri said, not looking away from her gaze. 'Especially since I am supposed to 
be the nothing.' 
The beautiful queen of the elves, Francesca Findabair laughed. 
'Congratulations, Yennefer,' she said in her hypnotically deep and melodious voice. 'I 
noticed you left your mark. This is gold. I recognise the school.' 
'It's easy to recognise,' Yennefer looked around with fiery eyes, 'because it is the school 
of Tissaia de Vries.' 
'Tissaia de Vries is dead,' Lady Owl said calmly. 'We mourn her, and gladly. Her death, 
however, was a turning point. Now is a new time and big changes are coming. You, Ciri, you 
were once Princess Cirilla of Cintra, but fate has now given you a different role. Surely you 
already know what it is.' 
'I know,' said Ciri, not listening to the warning hiss from Yennefer. 'Vilgefortz explained 
it to me! He was going to stick a glass tube between my legs. If this is to be the fate that 
awaits me, then thank you very much.' 
Philippa's dark eyes blazed with frosty fury. But it was Sile de Tansarville that spoke next 
to Ciri. 
'You still have a lot to learn, girl,' she said, covering her neck with her silver fox boa. 
'Many of the things you have seen and heard you will need to unlearn. Alone or with 
assistance. You have acquired a lot of bad habits, no doubt because of the evil you have 
experienced in this world. But this is childish stubbornness, and now you can't see that when 
someone only has your best interests at heart. You lash out around you with your claws like a 
wild kitten, so you have given us no choice. We will take you by the neck and treat you like a 
child, without a second thought. Because we are older, wiser and we know everything about 
what was, what is and we know a lot about what will be. We will take you by the neck like a 
child, so one day when you are a wise cat, you will sit here at this table, among us. One of us. 
No! Not a word! Do not dare open your mouth while Sile de Tansarville speaks.' 
The sorceress from Kovir voice was sharp and penetrating as a knife scratching on iron, 
and hung over the table. Ciri was not the only one to shrink and draw he head down between 
her shoulders but other magicians of the Lodge as well, with maybe the exception of 
Philippa, Francesca and Assire. And Yennefer. 
'You are right,' said Sile, adjusting the boa around her neck again, 'you were called to 
Montecalvo to meet your fate. But you were not right when you complained that you are 
nothing. You are everything, you are the world's future. At this point in time, you cannot 
even understand, because you are just a kitten, a child who sees everyone as Vilgefortz or 
Emhyr var Emries. At this point, it is not worth explaining that you are wrong. This is all for 
your sake and for the sake of the world. There will time for such explanations later. For now, 
you do not want to hear the voice of reason, and you riposte every argument with a child's 
stubbornness. So now you'll be taken by the neck. I'm done. Philippa, declare the girl's fate.' 
'You are coming with me,' Lady Owl said, breaking the heavy silence, 'and Sile to Kovir, 
to Pont Vanis, the summer capital of the kingdom. As you are no longer Cirilla of Cintra, 
during the course of the audience you will be presented as an adept of magic, being protected 
by us. At that audience you will meet a very wise king, Esterad Thyssen. You will meet his 
wife, the Queen Zuleyka, a person of singular nobility and goodness. You will also meet their 
son and heir, Prince Tancred.' 
Ciri was beginning to understand and rolled her eyes. Lady Owl did not miss that detail. 
'Yes,' she confirmed. 'First of all you must impress prince Tancred. because you are 
going to become his lover and give him a child.' 

'If you were still Cirilla of Cintra,' Philippa continued after a long pause, 'still the 
daughter of Pavetta and granddaughter of Calanthe, you would become Prince Tancred's 
legal wife. You'd be the princess and later the queen of Poviss and Kovir. Unfortunately, and 
I tell you with genuine regret, fate has deprived you of everything. Including your future. You 
will only be his mistress. His favourite.' 
'In name,' interjected Sile, 'and formally. In practice, we will in fact, endeavour to ensure 
that you are beside Tancred with the status of princess and later eventually queen. Naturally, 
we will need your help. Tancred has to want to have you by his side. Day and night. We will 
show you how to stimulate that desire, but it is up to your to bear the fruit of our teachings.' 
'All this is not important, at the end of the day,' said Lady Owl. 'The important thing is 
that you get pregnant to Tancred as soon as possible.' 
'Yeah, sure,' muttered Ciri. 
'Yours and Tancred's child,' Philippa watched here with dark eyes, 'will ensure the future 
and status of this Lodge. Take note that it will be a great thing. You will be a part of it, 
because right after the birth you will sit with us at this table. We will teach you. You are one 
of us, even if you do not want to admit it yet.' 
'On the island of Thanedd,' ciri overcame the tightness in her throat, 'you said I was a 
mindless tool, even a monster, Lady Owl and now you say that I am one of you.' 
'There is not that much difference,' the Daisy of the valley said in a ringing voice. 'We, 
me luned, are all monsters. Each in our own way. Is that not right, Lady Owl?' 
Philippa shrugged. 
'That ugly scar on your face,' Sile said indifferently, 'we will magically remove or 
disguise. You will be a beautiful and mysterious woman, and I guarantee that Tancred 
Thyssen will go crazy for you. We will have to invent some personal details. Cirilla is a nice 
name and not so rare, so you can keep it. But you still need a last name. I would not be 
against it, if you used mine.' 
'Or mine,' Lady Owl said covering the smile on the corner of her lips. 'Cirilla Eilhart also 
sounds nice.' 
'That name,' the hall rang with the silvery voice of the elven queen, 'is pretty in any 
combination. And each of us here would love to have a daughter like you, Zireael, Swallow 
with the eyes of a hawk. You are the body and the blood of Lara Dorren. Each of us would 
give everything, even this Lodge and the fate of the kingdoms around the world, to have such 
a daughter. However, it is impossible. We know that it is impossible. So we envy Yennefer.' 
'Thank you, Lady Philippa,' Ciri said after a few moments, squeezing the head of the 
sphinxes in her hands. 'I also feel honoured with the proposal to take the surname de 
Tansarville. However, it seems to me that my new last name is the only thing that I can 
choose for myself, I thank the two mistresses. But I want to be called Cirilla of Vengerberg, 
daughter of Yennefer.' 
'Ha!' a sorceress flashed her teeth, who Ciri guessed to be Sabrina Glevissig of Kaedwen. 
'Tancred Thyssen will be a fool if he does not marry her. If he instead choose another 
princess, he would be a fool and blind, not to recognise the diamond among the glass beads 
Yenna, I envy you. And you know how sincere I can be with my envy.' 
Yennefer thanked her with a gesture. Without a shadow of a smile. 
'So,' Philippa said, 'all is taken care of.' 
'No,' said Ciri. 
Francesca Findabair snorted quietly. Sile de Tansarville raised her head and her 
expression hardened. 
'I have to think about it,' Ciri said. 'Meditate. Put my thoughts in order. Calmly. And 
when I'm done I will come back here, to Montecalvo, and come before this Lodge and 
discuss what has been decided.' 

Sile moved her lips, as if she had noticed a bad taste in her mouth and wanted to sit it out 
immediately. But she remained silent. 
'I have to meet,' continued Ciri, 'with the witcher Geralt in the city of Rivia. I promised 
that I would be there and that Yennefer would accompany me. I will fulfil my promise, with 
or without your consent. Lady Rita, here knows that, when I go to Geralt, i9can always find a 
hole in the wall.' 
Margarita Laux-Antille nodded with a smile. 
'I need to talk to Geralt. Say goodbye to him. And tell him the truth. You should know 
one thing, ladies. When we left castle Stygga, leaving behind their dead and ours, I asked 
Geralt if it was all over, if we had won, if evil was defeated then good had prevailed. He did 
not answer, he just smiled a sad smile. I thought it was from fatigue and the sorrow of leaving 
all his friends buried under the walls. Only now I know what his smile meant. It was a 
sympathetic smile at the naivety of a child who believed that killing Vilgefortz and Bonhart 
represented the triumph of good over evil. have to try and convince Geralt that what you 
ladies want to do with me, differs substantially from what Vilgefortz wanted to do with his 
glass tube. I'll try and explain to him the differences between castle Montecalvo and castle 
Stygga, although Vilgefortz thought he was doing was for the good of the world and you 
ladies also do for the good of the world. I know it is not going to be easy to convince as old 
wolf like Geralt. Geralt will say that I'm a brat and can easily be fooled into doing noble 
things. But I have to try. It is important that he understand it, that he accepts it. It is very 
important. Also for you ladies.' 
'you did not understand,' Sile de Tansarville snapped sharply. 'You're still a snotty nosed 
girl who replaced whining with arrogance. The only thing that gives me some hope is the 
acumen of your mind. You learn quickly. Believe me, you will soon laugh at the stupid things 
you have said here. Relative to your trip to Rivia, I express my strong opposition. It is a 
matter of principle, to prove to you that I, Sile de Tansarville, never talk to the wind. That I 
can grab the necks of the rebellious. It is for your own good, to learn discipline.' 
'Therefore, let us resolve this issue,' said Philippa Eilhart, placing her hands on the table. 
'Let each of us express our opinion. Should we allow this arrogant maid, Ciri, to travel to 
Rivia? To meet with the witcher, for whom there is no place in her life? Are we to allow this 
sentimentality, which we will soon have to rid her of? Sile is against. What about the other 
ladies?' 
'I am also against,' Sabrina Glevissig announced. 'Also as a matter of principle. The girl, 
I like. I like her arrogance and stubbornness, it is better than flabby softness. I have nothing 
against her pleading. I have no doubt that she would return - I respect her word. But the girl 
has dared to threaten. So let her know that threats are no to be tolerated.' 
'I'm against it,' said Keira Metz. 'For purely practical reasons. I also like the girl and 
Geralt delivered me out of the hands of danger on Thanedd. It is a sentiment that I long ago gt 
rid of, but I do not deny that it was pleasant to me. I could repay him this way. But will not. 
Because you are wrong, Sabrina. This girl is a witcheress and is trying to be smarter than us. 
In short, she is just trying to get away.' 
'Does anyone here,' Yennefer said ominously, dragging her words, 'dare doubt the word 
of my daughter?' 
'Be silent, Yennefer,' Philippa hissed. 'Do not talk, or I'll lose patience. We have two 
votes against. Let's listen to the others.' 
'I am in favour of letting her go,' said Triss Merigold. 'I know her and can vouch for her. 
I would also, if permitted, accompany her on this trip. To help, if I may, in her meditations 
and reflections. And with her conversation with Geralt.' 
'I also vote for her,' Margarita said with a smile. 'You may wonder at my motivations, 
ladies, but I do it for Tissaia de Vries. If Tissaia was among us she would not agree that in 

order to maintain the unity of the Lodge it is necessary to use coercive methods or restriction 
of personal freedom.' 
'I vote for her,' said Francesca Findabair, adjusting the lace at her neckline. 'I have many 
reasons, but I do not wish to explain them.' 
'I vote for her,' said Ida Emean aep Sivney. 'So my heart dictates.' 
'I'm against it,' Assire var Anahid said dryly. 'I do not decide out of lack of sympathy, 
antipathy or principled reasons. I fear for her life. Under the protection of the Lodge, Ciri is 
safe and on the route to Rivia she will be an easy target. I fear those that stole her identity and 
even her name, still don't think that it's enough.' 
'We have,' Sabrina said sarcastically, 'yet to know the opinion of Lady Fringilla Vigo. I 
guess that it is obvious. We all remember the castle Rhys-Rhune.' 
'I am grateful for the reminder,' Fringilla cocked her head proudly. 'I am for Ciri. To 
prove the admiration and affection I have for the girl. I also do it for the witcher, Geralt of 
Rivia, without which the girl would not be sitting here today. To save Ciri, he went to the 
edge of the world and fought everyone trying to prevent him - even himself. It would be 
shameful to deny him a meeting with his daughter.' 
'I have not heard here any shameful acts,' Sabrina said cynically. 'But a lot of naive 
sentimentality. Just such sentimentality that we want to eradicate from the girl. The results 
are that the scales have settled in deadlock. We have not decided anything. We need to vote 
again. I suggest that this time we do it secretly.' 
'Why?' 
All looked at the one who spoke - at Yennefer. 
'I am still a member of the Lodge,' said Yennefer. 'I have not been deprived of 
membership, you have not put anyone else in my place, so I have the right to vote. Certainly I 
know how I will vote. My vote therefore pushes the scales over and settles the matter.' 
'Your insolence,' Sabrina said, lacing her fingers together, loaded with onyx rings, 
'borders on bad taste, Yennefer.' 
'If I was in your place, madam, I would keep a discreet silence,' Sile added gravely. 'And 
be fearful of another vote, to deal with you.' 
'I voted for Ciri,' Francesca said, 'but you, Yennefer, I have to call to order. You ran 
away from the Lodge, refusing to cooperate. But you have responsibilities and obligations, 
debts that you have to repay, the verdict must be made. Otherwise you would not have been 
allowed to cross the threshold of Montecalvo.' 
Yennefer grabbed Ciri, who was dying to get up and scream. Finally, without resistance, 
Ciri dropped back into her chair in silence. Lady Owl, suddenly rose from her seat, 
dominating the whole table. 
'Yennefer,' she proclaimed loudly, 'you are not entitled to a vote, that is clear. But I am. I 
have heard all the voices present. I guess, I will finally make my vote.' 
'Who do you vote, Philippa?' Sabrina frowned. 
Philippa Eilhart looked across the table. She met Ciri's green eyes and stared at them. 
 
*** 
 
The bottom of the pond was a multicoloured mosaic, the coloured tiles appeared to move. 
Sitting on the pong creating shadows were the broad leaves of water lilies hiding goldfish. 
The water's surface reflected the dark eyes of a little girl, he long hair floated on the water. 
The girl had forgotten the whole world, laying on the edge of the pool with her little hands in 
the water. 

She went to try and touch those gold and red fish. The fish approached her fingers and 
palms, curiously circling around them, but she couldn't catch them. They remained as elusive 
as light and shadow, as the water itself. The dark-eyed girl fingers clutched emptiness. 'Philippa!' 
It was the most beloved voice in the world. And yet she was not a little girl now. 
Furthermore, she was not looking into the water. The water lilies, fish and reflection were gone. 
'Philippa!' 
 
*** 
'Philippa!' Sile de Tansarville's sharp voice pulled her from her reflections. 'We are 
waiting.' 
Through the open window cam the cold wind of spring. Philippa Eilhart shuddered. 
Death, she thought. Death has passed by my side/ 
'This Lodge,' she said at last in a firm voice, 'is to decide the fate of the world. So, this 
Lodge must reflect the world. Here, equilibrium and wisdom does not always mean cold and 
selfish, calculation and vileness, and sentimentality is not always naive. On one hand, iron discipline and on the other responsibility, resistance to violence, gentleness and trust. 
Cool reason... And heart.' 
'I,' she said into the silence that reigned after her introduction, 'cast the last vote. I will 
take into account one more thing. An element that without balancing anything, balances 
everything.' 
Following her gaze, everyone looked at the wall, to a mosaic of many multicolour tiles 
depicted the snake Uroboros, biting it's own tail. 
'That thing,' she continued, staring with her dark eyes at Ciri, 'is destiny in which i, 
Philippa Eilhart have only begun to believe in recently, which I have only recently begun to 
understand. Destiny is not the way to providence or comfortable fatalism. Destiny is hope. I 
am full of hope that it will become what we want to happen, so I give my vote to Ciri - Child 
of Destiny, Child of Hope' 
In the pillared hall of Montecalvo the was silence for a long time. from outside of the 
window came the hunting cry from a sea eagle. 
'Lady Yennefer,' Ciri whispered. 'It means...' 
'Come, my daughter,' Yennefer whispered back. 'Geralt is waiting for is and it is a long 
road ahead.' 
 
*** 
 
Geralt awoke suddenly and sat up. He heard the echoing cry of a sea eagle. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Then the witcher and the sorceress were married at a glorious wedding. They stayed for a 
long time and ate honey and drank wine. 
They lived happily ever after, but very briefly. He died of a heart attack. She died soon 
after, of what the story does not mention. They say that it was with regret and longing, but 
who would believe in such fairy tales. 
 
Flourens Delannoy 
Fairytales and Stories 
 
 
 

Chapter Twelve 
 
 
It was the sixth day after the new moon of June when they reach Rivia. 
The emerged from the woods and appeared on the side of a hill. At the foot of the hill, 
suddenly, without warning, flashed the mirror surface of the lake of Loc Eskalott, which the 
valley took its name from. In its waters were reflected the shapes of mahakam massif, fir 
trees, and the larch-covered hills of Craag Ros. At the lake's peninsula was Castle Rivia, the 
winter residence of the kings of Lyria and at the southern tip of Loc Eskalott was situated the 
city. 
'So here we are,' Dandelion confirm the obvious fact. 'Destiny has brought us here again, 
the circle has closed. I don't see the blue and white banner on the castle towers, so Queen 
Meve must not be present. I don't think that she has forgiven your desertion...' 
'Believe me, Dandelion,' Geralt interrupted him, guiding his horse down the slope. 'I do 
not care if she has forgiven me or wont forgive me...' 
Next to the city, near the entrance gate, stood a colourful tent reminiscent of a cake. In 
front of the tent, on a pole, hung a white shield with a red chevron. Under the raised part of 
the tent stood a king in full armour and a white tabard the same as the shield. The knight, 
with a penetrating and challenging look, stared at the women passing by before him with 
sacks of coal, charcoal, deadwood and barrels of pitch. Upon seeing Geralt and Dandelion 
approach on horseback, his eyes lit up with hope. 
'The Lady of your heart,' Geralt thwarted the hopes of the knight with a chilling voice, 
'whoever she is, is the most beautiful and virtuous of all women from the Yaruga to the 
Buina.' 
'On my honour,' the knight reluctantly answered. 'You speak the truth, sir.' 
 
*** 
 
A blond girl in a silver studded, leather jacket vomited in the middle of the street, bent in 
half, holding the stirrup of a grey mare. Two colleagues of the girl, in identical clothing, with 
swords on their backs and headbands holding back their hair, vulgarly insulted passerbys with 
their slurred speech. both were more than drunk, weaving on their feet and clutching to the 
sides of horses tied to a pole set in front of the inn. 
'Do we really need to go in there?' asked Dandelion. 'Inside there is bound to be more like 
them.' 
'The meeting is arranged here, remember? This is the Cock and Bull inn, which was 
written on the tablet.' 
The blond girl again leaned forward in her next spasm of vomiting. The mare snorted and 
shied, so the girl fell to the ground landing in her own vomit. 
'What are you staring at, asshole?' yelled one of the colleagues. 'White hair!' 
'Geralt,' whispered Dandelion. 'Please don't do anything stupid.' 
'Don't worry.' 
They tied their horses to the berth at the front of the inn. The young men were ignoring 
them, busy shouting at a townswoman passing down the road with a child. They did not like 
what they saw. 
The first thing that drew the eye when they entered the inn was the inscription - CHEF 
WANTED. The second was the large painting on the wall showing a bearded monster with an 
axe dripping blood. The sign underneath it read - Mahakam Dwarf - vile traitor. 

Dandelion lacked no reason to be scared. The only customers in the establishment, apart 
from some winos who drank with dignity and a couple of prostitutes, were people wearing 
leather garments and with swords hanging from their backs. 
There were eight of them in total, of both sexes, but they made enough fuss to be 
eighteen. They constantly shouted insults and blasphemes. 
'I recognise you, gentlemen. I know who you are,' said the innkeeper. 'I have a message 
for you. You have to go to the tavern called Wirsing's.' 
'That's good tavern,' Dandelion rejoiced. 
'Well then, go and take advantage of their establishment,' the innkeeper said, drying 
glasses with his apron. 'If you don't like my place, take your business elsewhere. But I tell 
you that the Elms quarter only dwarves and non-humans inhabit there.' 
'So what?' Geralt blinked. 
'Well, you probably know this,' the innkeeper shrugged, 'but the one who left the message 
for you was a dwarf. If it pleases you t be dealing with such people... that is your business. 
You, gentlemen, know whose company you prefer.' 
'We are very picky when it comes to company,' said Dandelion, nodding his head towards 
the table with the men and women in leather jackets and headbands holding back their hair. 
'But it is not kind to point out something under someone's nose.' 
The innkeeper placed a freshly dried glass on the counter and looked at them scowling. 
'You have to be more understanding,' he said in an emphatic tone. 'The young people need 
to let off steam. It is well know that young people should let off steam. The war has 
mistreated them. Their fathers died...' 
'And their mothers are whoring,' finished Geralt, his voice as cold as an icy mountain 
stream. 'I understand. I embody tolerance. At least I try. Come on, Dandelion.' 
'Go ahead then, with all due respect,' said the innkeeper without any respect. 'Just don't 
complain that I didn't warn you. In these times it is easy to get fleeced in the dwarven quarter. 
Just...' 
'Just what?' 
'Just nothing. This is not my thing.' 
'Come on, Geralt,' said Dandelion to the witcher, he had started to notice the war orphans, 
those not completely drunk, eyes begin to glitter with the use of fisstech. 
'Goodbye, innkeeper. Who knows, maybe someday I'll visit your business. When you 
take down the sign in the entrance.' 
'And which one of the signs does not please you, gentlemen?' the innkeeper frowned and 
glared at them. 'Huh? The one with the dwarf?' 
'No, the one about the chef.' 
Three young people got up from the table, swaying on their feet, evidently with the 
intention of intercepting them. Two boys and a girl in black leather jackets. With swords on 
their backs. 
Geralt did not slow, he walked towards them, his face and eye were cold and completely 
indifferent. 
The young people at the very last moment, parted and retreated. Dandelion noticed the 
stench of beer. Sweat. And fear. 
'They have to get used to it,' the witcher said as they entered the street. 'They have to 
adapt.' 
'Sometimes it is difficult.' 
'This is not an argument, Dandelion.' 
The air was hot, stick and as thick as soup. 
 
*** 

 
Outside, in front of the inn, two young men in black jackets helped the blond girl wash in 
the horse trough. The girl, spat, snorted and stammered trying to explain that she felt better 
and that she needed a drink. That they would definitely go the market stalls for entertainment, 
but not before a drink. 
Her name was Nadia Esposito. The name has been recorded in the annals. And went 
down in history. 
But Geralt and Dandelion did not know this yet. Nor did the girl. 
 
*** 
 
The streets of Rivia were alive with a great buzz and what appeared to be locals 
completely absorbed visiting traders. It seemed that everyone there traded everything, trying 
to change one thing for something else. From everywhere came the cacophony of sound of 
products being advertised, fierce haggling and from both sides the sounds of people being 
accused of fraud, theft, chicanery and other sins which had nothing to do with trade. 
Before coming to the Elms district, Geralt and Dandelion received many intrusting 
proposals. Offered to them was, among other things - a astrolabes, a tin trumpet and 
decorative cutlery adorned with the Frangipani family crest, shares in a copper mine, a jar of 
leeches. a tattered tome entitled The Miracle or Head of Medusa, a pair of breeding ferrets, an 
elixir to increase potency and even - for a negotiated price - a not too young, not too thin, and 
not very clean bride. 
A black-bearded dwarf with an unprecedented brazenness was trying to convince them to 
buy a cheap mirror in a frame, which he claim to be one of the magical Cambuscan mirrors. 
At that moment a stone was thrown which knocked the goods from his hand. 
'Mangy kobold!' cried the assailant, a dirty, barefoot urchin who was running away. 'Non-
human! Bearded Goat!' 
'I hope your gut rots, human worm!' roared the dwarf in return. 'I hope it will rot and 
come out your ass!' 
People watched in grim silence. 
 
*** 
 
The district of the Elms was located on the shore of the lake in a cove where grew alders, 
weeping willows and of course, elms. Here everything was much quieter and calm, nobody 
was buying anything and nobody wanted to sell. 
From the lake a breeze was blowing which was especially nice for the two after escaping 
the suffocating stench and flies of the market streets. 
They soon found the Wirising tavern. It was the first on the street and the saw it with 
ease. 
The porch was covered in climbing roses, and under the roof overgrown with moss, 
where a swallows nests hung, were two dwarves. 
'Geralt and Dandelion,' said one of the dwarves belching loudly. 'You, rogues have come 
as expected.' 
Geralt dismounted. 
'Hail, Yarpen Zigrin. Good to see you, Zoltan Chivay.' 
 
*** 
 

They were the only guests in the pub that smelled of garlic, spices and something 
indescribable, but pleasant. They sat at a heavy table overlooking the lake, which through the 
glass window next to the table, appeared mysterious, magical and romantic. 
'Where is Ciri?' Yarpen Zigrin asked bluntly. 'I hope nothing...' 
'No,' Geralt quickly interrupted him, 'she is on her way. You will see her soon. Well, 
bearded storyteller, tell me what is new.' 
'What did I tell you?' Yarpen said sarcastically. 'What did I tell you, Zoltan? He returns 
from the end of the world, where he, if you believe the rumours, waded through blood, killed 
dragons and overthrew an empire. And he asks, how we are going. The same witcher.' 
'What smells so good?' Dandelion said, sniffing. 
'Lunch,' Yarpen Zigrin said. 'Meat. Don't ask us, Dandelion, where we came by the meat.' 
'No I'm not asking, because I know the joke.' 
'Don't be a bore.' 
'Where did the meat come from?' 
'He came alone to find us.' 
'And now, seriously,' Yarpen said, wiping his eyes, though the joke was, in fact, very old. 
'With regard to the food, we are in a critical situation, as always after a war. The meat is 
rarely seen, even poultry, fish is difficult to find as well... It is just as bad with flour, potatoes, 
and legumes... Farms were burned along with their stores, ponds were emptied, and the fields 
are fallow...' 
'Production has stagnated,' added Zoltan. 'There is no transport. The only thing that works 
is usury and barter. Have you seen the bazaar? The rich alongside the poor, selling and 
bartering the last remnants of his property and amassed fortunes...' 
'If we get a poor harvest before this winter then people will die of starvation.' 
'Is it really that bad?' 
'Coming from the south, you had to pass villages and settlements. Think of in how many 
you heard the barking of dogs.' 
'Bloody hell,' Dandelion slapped his forehead. 'I saw... I told you, Geralt, it was not 
normal! That something was missing! Ha! Now I realise! I did not hear any dogs! There was 
no...' 
He stopped suddenly, looked towards the kitchen where the smell of garlic and spices 
came from and terror came into his eyes. 
'Don't worry,' Yarpen grumbled. 'Our meat has never barked, meowed or cried for mercy. 
Our meat is nothing like that. It is fit for a king!' 
'Confess, dwarf!' 
'When we received your letter and it was clear that we would see you in Rivia, we were 
thinking, Zoltan and me, how we could entertain you. We were going round in circles until 
we felt like pissing. Then we approached the lake shore and saw that it was plagued by snails. 
Se we took a bag and filled it to the brim with those precious molluscs.' 
'We missed a few of them,' nodded Zoltan Chivay. 'But we were very drunk and they 
were very quick.' 
Both dwarves again burst out in laughter at the joke. 
'Wirsing,' Yarpen said pointing to the kitchen, 'can prepare snails well, as you must know 
that it requires a lot of science. The chef is well renown. Before becoming a widower, he and 
his woman owned an inn in Maribor, and he cooked so well that even the King himself was a 
guest there. And now let's drink, I say!' 
'But first,' Zoltan said, 'try some of the whitefish, freshly smoked and caught from the 
lake.' 
'And we are waiting for you story, gentlemen,' said Yarpen. 'We are curious to hear what 
you experienced.' 

 
*** 
 
The whitefish was still warm, oily and fragrant. The vodka was cold and her their teeth. 
Dandelion went first, with his flowery style, colourful language and embellishments on 
the story full of nonsense and lies. Then the witcher spoke. He told the pure truth, and spoke 
dry and monotonously. Dandelion could not stand it and interrupted again and again which 
earned him reprimands from the dwarves. 
And then the story was over and there was a long silence. 
'For the archer Milva!' Zoltan cleared his throat and raised his cup in a salute. 'For the 
Nilfgaardian. For Regis the herbalist, who entertained strangers in his hut, with moonshine 
made from mandrake. And for this Angouleme, with who I am not familiar. Let the earth rest 
light on them. Let them have there, in the afterlife, everything that they had scarce in this life. 
And let their names live on long in songs and stories. Let's drink.' 
'Let's drink,' echoed Dandelion and Yarpen. 
Let's drink, thought the witcher. 
 
*** 
 
Wirsing, a grey-haired man, pale and skin as a stick, a veritable denial of a stereotypical 
innkeeper and master of the culinary mysteries, deposited on the table a basket of white 
fragrant bread and a platter of snails, sizzling in garlic and spices on a bed of radish leaves. 
Dandelion, Geralt and the dwarves dug in quickly. The meal was exquisitely tasty and 
very funny at the same time, given the need for clumsy forceps and forks. 
They ate, smacking their lips, eating the bread and mincing words when referring to every 
second snail that slipped from the forceps. Two kittens also enjoyed the meal whenever a 
snail slipped from the clamps and rolled on the floor. 
The smell coming from the kitchen indicated that Wirsing was preparing another serving. 
 
*** 
 
Yarpen Zigrin reluctantly waved his hand, but realised the witcher was not going to give 
up. 
'For me there has been nothing new,' he said, spitting out a piece of snail shell. 'I was in 
the army... Then I was selected as a bailiff. I'll do a career in politics. There is too much 
competition in business. In politics any fool can hold the purse of a thief. It is easy to stand 
out.' 
 'Well, I,' said Zoltan Chivay, gesturing with a snail, 'am not for politics. I'll go home to 
my forge, driven by water and steam, accompanied by Figgis Merluzzo and Munro Bruys. 
You remember Figgis and Munro, witcher?' 
'Not just them.' 
'Yazon Varda was killed at the Yaruga,' Zoltan said dryly. 'Quite stupidly, in one of the 
last battles.' 
'A pity. And Percival Schettenbach?' 
'The gnome? Ah, he's fine. That rogue escaped the recruitment claiming his religion 
forbids war. And he succeeded, even though everyone knows that the entire pantheon of gods 
and goddesses would go to war for a pickled herring. He has a jewellery shop in Novigrad. 
He bought my parrot, Field Marshal Duda, and made the bird a living advertisement. He 
taught him to say "Diamonds! Diamonds!' And it works, go figure. The gnome has clientele 
loaded with money. But it is Novigrad! And there is money in the streets. Therefore, we also 
want to establish a forge in Novigrad.' 
'Those people with scribble with shit on your door,' Yarpen said. 'Throw stones through 
your windows. They call you a damned dwarf. It doesn't matter that you are a veteran. In 
Novigrad you'll be nothing more than a pariah.' 
'I'll go anyway,' Zoltan said cheerfully. 'There is too much competition in Mahakam. And 
a lot of politicians. Let's drink for our friends. For Caleb Stratton. For Yazon Varda.' 
'For Regan Dahlberg,' Yarpen added, frowning. Geralt shook his head. 
'Regan also...' 
'Also. In Mayena. The old Dahlberg has been left alone in this world. Ah, hell, enough of 
this! Let's drink. and hurry up with those snail, because Wirsing is coming over with another 
pan.' 
 
*** 
 
The dwarves, with belts unbuckled, listened to Geralt's story of Dandelion's aristocratic 
romance, that ended on the gallows. The poet seemed offended and did not comment. Zoltan 
and Yarpen almost spilt apart with laughter. 
'Yes, yes,' Yarpen said finally, 'in the words of the old song - a man breaks down in tears 
and the woman smiles. pleased.' Some distinguish examples of that saying have joined with 
us around this table today. Look no further than Zoltan Chivay. With all the stories that have 
been told, he forgot to add that he is getting married. Soon, in September. The lucky woman 
is called Eudora Brekekes.' 
'Breckenriggs!' Zoltan emphatically corrected, frowning. 'I'm starting to get tired of 
correcting your pronunciation, Zigrin. Take heed, when I get tired of something I kick it up 
the ass!' 
'Where's the wedding? And when exactly?' Dandelion said soothingly. 'I ask because we 
will come. If you invite us, of course.' 
'We have not yet reached a decision on where, when or how, or if we are even getting 
married,' muttered Zoltan, visibly confused. 'Yarpen has rushed things. I think Eudora has 
committed, but who knows what will happen? It is still bad times.' 
'The second example of a girl's omnipotence,' continued Yarpen, 'is Geralt of Rivia, the 
witcher.' 
Geralt pretended to be busy with a snail. Yarpen snorted. 
'After miraculously finding his Ciri, he allows her to leave. He leaves her alone again, 
even though, as someone rightly pointed out here, it is still bad times. All of this happens to 
the witcher, because a woman wanted it. The witcher always does what this woman wants, a 
certain Yennefer of Vengerberg. If he at least got something from the sorceress in question... 
But he gets nothing. The truth. as King Dezmod used to say, looking at the chamber pot after 
relieving himself "The mind cannot comprehend this."' 
'I suggest,' said Geralt, picking up a cup with a wry smile, 'to drink and change to topic of 
conversation.' 
'Right,' Zoltan and Dandelion said in unison. 
 
*** 
 
Wirsing carried a third and forth platter of snails to the table. Not forgetting, of course, 
the bread and vodka. The diners were beginning to get full, so it was not surprising that the 
toast were becoming more frequent. Nor was there any wonder that they spoke more 
philosophy and with increasingly thick speech. 

'The evil we were fighting against,' insisted the witcher, 'is a manifestation of the action of 
chaos and their performances aimed to disturb the order. So, when evil spread, the order 
could not reign, and all that order was building fell apart, and nothing was left standing. The 
faint glow of wisdom and the timid flame of hope, embers that still retained the heat, rather 
than flash and then die away. Darkness ensued. And the darkness was filled with fangs, claws 
and blood.' 
Yarpen Zigrin stroked his beard, smearing grease from the snails through it. 
'You speak well, witcher,' he admitted. 'But, as young Cerro said to King Vridnak on their 
first date "Does it have any practical uses?"' 
'There is no ground for the existence of witchers,' Geralt did not smile, 'because the 
struggle of Good and Evil takes place now in an entirely different field of battle in a 
completely different way. The evil is no longer chaotic. It is no longer a blind force, 
unbridled, which a witcher has to face, a mutant as deadly as chaotic evil itself. Today Evil is 
governed by laws - because the laws serve them. They act in accordance with treaties and 
have signed for peace, because some treaties allow...' 
'Settlers to be forcefully expelled,' Zoltan guessed. 
'And not only that,' Dandelion added gravely. 'Not only that.' 
'So what?' Yarpen Zigrin, sat back and folded his hands on his belly. 'We've all seen 
something. Everyone has been pissed on. Each lost a dream. That's what happens, it's always 
been like that and it always will be. We are the lowest, nothing more than these empty shells. 
What do you dislike, witcher? What is going on? The changes that the world is experiencing? 
The development? The progress?' 
'Maybe.' 
Yarpen was silent for a while, watching the witcher from under his bushy eyebrows. 
'Progress,' he said at last, 'is like a herd of pigs. So that is the way you see progress, and 
that is how you judge it. Like a herd of pigs that walk through the courtyard of the farmhouse. 
The existence of the herd means profit. The pork knuckles. The sausages, the bacon. In short, 
there are a number of advantages! So you shouldn't pout and complain that there is shit 
everywhere.' 
Everyone was quiet for a time, weighing his heart and conscience on all matters and 
important issues. 
'I need a drink,' Dandelion finally said. 
No one protested. 
 
*** 
 
'Progress,' Yarpen Zigrin said into the silence, 'will, in the long run, brighten the darkness. 
the darkness will give way to the light. But not immediately. And, of course, not without a 
struggle.' 
Geralt, staring out the window, smiled at his own thoughts and dreams. 
'That darkness you speak of,' he said, 'is a state of spirit, not matter. To fight something 
you need to train something quite different than a witcher. It is time to start.' 
'You will start to retrain? Is that what you were thinking?' 
'Not at all. this job holds no interest to me. I will go into retirement.' 
'Is that right!' 
'I'm serious. no more being a witcher.' 
There was a long silence, broken occasionally by the furious meows of the kittens as they 
scratched at each other in a game. 
'No more being a witcher,' Yarpen Zigrin repeated. 'Ha! I don't know what to think about 
that, as old King Dezmod said when caught cheating at cards. But i have a very bad feeling. 

Dandelion, you have travelled with him and spent a lot of time at his side. Has he shown 
other symptoms of paranoia?' 
'Okay, okay,' said Geralt with a stony face. 'No more jokes, as King Dezmod said when 
all of his guests at a feast began to go livid and croak. I have said all that I had to say. And 
now down to actions.' 
He picked up his sword, which was hanging on the back of his chair. 
'Here is your Sihil, Zoltan Chivay. I return it to you with gratitude and recognition. It has 
been useful. It has helped me. It has saved lives. And taken lives.' 
'Witcher...' the dwarf raised his hands in a defensive gesture. 'The sword is yours. I did 
not lend it to you, I gave it to you. As a gift...' 
'Hush, Chivay. I give you back your sword. I'll no longer need it.' 
'Quickly,' Yarpen said. 'Pour vodka into him, Dandelion, because he is talking like an old 
Schrader when he fell into the mine shaft on his head. Geralt, I know you've a deep 
temperament and a sensitive soul, but do not talk such crap, as you can see, Yennefer is not 
here, just us old wolves. Don't tell us old wolves stories of a witcher not needing a sword, the 
world is not like that. You are a witcher and you will need...' 
'No, I won't,' Geralt gently denied. 'Perhaps this will surprise you old wolves, but I have 
come to the conclusion that it is foolish to piss in the wind. That it is foolish to stick my neck 
out for anyone. Even if that someone pays. An no, this is not an existential philosophy. 
Believe it, but suddenly, I have taken a tremendous affection for my own skin. I have come to 
the conclusion that it would be stupid to risk it in defence of others..' 
'I noticed,' Dandelion nodded. 'On one hand, it is smart. On the other...' 
'There is no other.' 
'Yennefer and Ciri,' Yarpen asked after a little while, 'have something to do with your 
decision?' 
'Much.' 
'Then everything is clear,' Zoltan sighed. 'I have no clue how a master swordsman will 
adapt to normal life. But, try as I might, I cannot see you planting cabbages, although I do 
have respect for your choice... Innkeeper! This sword is a Mahakam Rune Sihil from the 
Rhundurina forge itself. It was a gift. If the recipient does not want it, then the one who gave 
it must take it back. Take it and hang it over your fireplace. Rename you inn to, "The 
Witcher's Sword". Then on winter nights we can tell stories about monsters and treasure, of 
bloody wars and bitter battles. Of death. Of deep love and unwavering friendship. About 
courage and honour and this sword will hang there, above the listeners and inspire the 
storyteller. Now pour me a drink, gentlemen, a glass of vodka, because I will continue and 
will be delivering profound truths and philosophies, including existential ones.' 
they pour vodka into their glasses quietly and with dignity. They looked each other in the 
eye and drank. With no less dignity. Yarpen Zigrin cleared his throat, looked at his audience 
to make sure they were sufficiently focused and dignified. 
'Progress,' he spoke with deliberation, 'will brighten the darkness, because that is what 
progress does, like, excuse the expression, an ass is for shitting. Each time there will be more 
light, and we will be less afraid of the dark and the evil that lurks in it. Perhaps the day will 
come, when we will simply stop believing that something is hidden in the darkness. and we 
will laugh at that kind of fear. It will seem childish. And will bring shame! But there will 
always, always be darkness. And evil will always be waiting in the darkness, with its claws, 
fangs and blood. And witchers will always be necessary.' 
 
*** 
 

They sat in meditation an silence, deep in thought, so deep that they did not noticed the 
increasing noise in the city - a sinister and menacing noise like the irritated buzzing of wasps. 
They barely noticed how quiet and empty lakeside boulevard was until one person ran 
past, then another, then another. 
Suddenly, shouting broke out in the city and the door of Wirsing's inn burst wide open 
and a young dwarf ran into the room. He was red with effort and had difficulty catching his 
breath. 
'What is it?' Yarpen Zigrin lifted his head. 
The dwarf, still breathless, pointed in the direction of the town. His eyes were wild. 
'Take a deep breath,' Zoltan Chivay advised. 'And tell us what's wrong.' 
 
*** 
 
Later it was claimed that the tragic events in Rivia were an unfortunate coincidence that 
was a spontaneous reaction, a sudden and unpredictable outburst of justified anger induced by 
the hostility of the dwarves and elves towards the humans of the city. It was argued that is 
was not the humans, but the dwarves that attacked first, that they provoked the violence. A 
dwarfish heckler insulted the noble Lady Nadia Esposito, a war orphan and that he used 
violence against her. Later when the nobles came to the defence of their friend, the dwarf 
called upon his relatives. A fight ensued, which soon became a real battle that , in the 
twinkling of an eye, engulfed the whole bazaar. 
The battle degraded into a bloodbath, in a massive attack from the humans against the 
districts occupied by the non-humans and the district of the Elms. In less than an hour, since 
the incident at the bazaar to the intervention of the sorceresses, one hundred and seventy 
people were killed, about half of which were women and children. 
This version of events is reflected in the works of Professor Emmerich Gottschalk of 
Oxenfurt. 
But there are others who argue otherwise. How can this be spontaneous, this 
unpredictable explosion, that within minutes of there were carts on the streets of the bazaar 
handing out weapons among the humans? Where did the sudden righteous anger of this mob 
come from, of who the most visible and active members at the time of the massacre, were 
people whom nobody new, and who had only come to Rivia a few day s before the incident, 
and they disappeared without a trace? why did the military intervene so late? And why with 
such distaste? 
Some scholars sought to interpret events in Rivia as a Nilfgaardian provocation, and there 
were others who argued that everything had been hatched by dwarves in league with the 
elves. Who were killing their own to discredit the humans. 
Lost among the majority of scientific voices was a theory by a young, bold and eccentric 
lawyer, who - until he was silenced - claimed that the incident in Rivia was not from secret 
conspiracies, but ordinary and very common characteristics of the local population - 
ignorance, xenophobia, violence and profound brutalisation. 
Later, everyone grew board and stopped talking about the matter altogether. 
 
 *** 
 
'Into the cellar,' the witcher said grimly, listening to the approaching noise and the roar of 
the crowd. 'Get into the basement, dwarves! And without your stupid heroism!' 
'Witcher,' Zoltan protested, clutching the handle of his axe. 'I cannot... They are killing 
my brothers...' 

 'Into the cellar. Think about Eudora. Do you want her to be a widow before the 
wedding?' 
The argument worked. The dwarves ran to the cellar. Geralt and Dandelion hid the 
entrance with a rug. Wirsing, usually pale, was as white as buttermilk. 
'I saw a pogrom in Maribor,' he stammered, looking at the entrance of the cellar. 'If they 
find them there...' 
'Go to the kitchen.' 
Dandelion was also pale. Geralt was not surprised. Until recently it was a formless and 
monotonous roar but now they could pick out individual voices. The sound of them lifted the 
hair on his head. 
'Geralt,' moaned the poet. 'I have a certain resemblance to an elf...' 
'Don't be stupid.' 
Clouds of smoke appeared over the rooftops. A group of dwarves came running through 
the alleys. Dwarves of both sexes. 
Two of them, without hesitation, jumped into the lake and started swimming, splashing 
hard and moving for the center of the lake. The rest scattered. Some turned towards the inn. 
The mob poured into the street. They were faster than the dwarves. In their race was the 
lust for killing. 
The cries of the victims drilled their ears, ringing on the stained glass windows of the 
premises. Geralt noticed that his hands had begun to tremble. 
One of the dwarves was literally torn to pieces. Another was thrown to the ground and in 
seconds became a shapeless, bloody mass. A woman was massacred with pitchforks and 
spears. The child she was protecting was simply trampled, crushed to death beneath their feet. 
Three dwarves - a man and two women - ran towards the inn. The roaring crowd raced 
after them. 
Geralt took a deep breath. He stood up. Feeling the terrified eyes of Dandelion and 
Wirsing, he removed from the shelf above the fireplace, Sihil, the Mahakam sword forged in 
the foundry of Rhundurina itself. 
'Geralt...' Dandelion moaned in a heartbreaking tone. 
'Very well,' said the witcher, walking towards the exit. 'But this is the last time! Damn 
me, but it really is the last time!' 
He went out onto the porch, then jumped off it and cut a hulking man in a masonry 
smock, then a woman that threatened him with a shovel. He then amputated the hand of a 
woman who was grasping the hair of one of the dwarves. With two quick diagonal cuts he 
finished off the men kicking one of the fallen dwarves. 
He waded into the crowd. Quickly moving in semicircles. He slashed wide, seemingly at 
random - knowing that such swings were more spectacular than violent. He did not want to 
kill them. He just wanted to wounded them. 
'An elf! An elf!' someone in the mob shouted as if possessed. 'Kill the elf!' 
What nonsense, he thought, Dandelion might look like an elf, but I don't look like an elf in 
any way. 
He spotted the person who had shouted, maybe a soldier, for he was wearing uniform and 
high boots. He advanced through the crowd, dodging like an eel. The soldier was protecting 
himself with a pike, holding it with both hands. Geralt chopped at the pole, severing fingers. 
He spun, causing another large cut, screams of pain and a fountain of blood. 
'Mercy!' A lad said on his knees before him, peering through his dishevelled hair. 'Mercy!' 
Geralt spared him, stopping his arm and sword, using the attacking impetus to complete 
his turn. From the corner of his eye he saw the dishevelled young man with a smirk on his 
face and saw what he was holding in his hands. He changed the direction of his movement, 

trying to escape. But he was caught in the crowd. And for a split second he was mired in the 
crowd. 
He could only watch at the pitchfork that was flying towards his body. 
 
*** 
 
The fire in the huge fireplace went out. A gust of wind from the mountains whistled 
through the crevices of the walls and screamed through the improperly closed shutters of 
Kaer Morhen, Home of the Witchers. 
'Damn it!' Eskel said, standing up and going to the cupboard. 'Seagull of vodka?' 
'Vodka,' Geralt and Coen said with one voice. 
'Sure,' interjected Vesemir, hidden in the shadows, 'Yes, of course! Drown your stupidity 
in vodka. Damn fools!' 
'It was an accident...' muttered Lambert. 'She had already mastered the comb...' 
'shut your big mouth, you idiot! I don't want to hear any more! I warned you, if something 
happened to that little girl...' 
'Enough,' Coen interrupted him, softly. 'She sleeps peacefully. Deep and healthy. She will 
wake up a bit sore, but that's it. About the trance, and what happened, she will not even 
remember it.' 
'As long as you remember,' said Vesemir, panting angrily. 'Cabbage heads! Pour for me 
too, Eskel.' 
They were silent for a long time, listening intently to the howling gale. 
'We will need to call someone,' Eskel finally said. 'We will need to bring a sorcerer here. 
What is happening to the girl, it is not normal.' 
'That is her third trance.' 
'But the first time she has spoken clearly.' 
'Repeat to me again what she said,' Vesemir said, emptying his cup in one gulp. 'Word for 
word.' 
'I cannot repeat it verbatim,' Geralt said, staring into the embers. 'But the sense of it, if 
you can make sense of it, was as follows - Coen and I will die. The teeth will be our undoing. 
We will both be killed by teeth. He two. And me three.' 
'It is quite likely,' snorted Lambert. 'that you'll be killed from bites. Teeth can kill any of 
us at any time. But you two, if that prophecy is truly prophetic, will be finished off by some 
very jagged monsters.' 
'Or festering gangrene because of bad teeth,' Eskel agree, apparently quite serious. 'But 
we are not missing any teeth.' 
'I,' said Vesemir reprovingly, 'would not take the matter lightly.' 
The witchers were silent. The wind howled through the walls of Kaer Morhen. 
 
*** 
 
The dishevelled lad, as if afraid of what he had done, let go of the pitchfork. The witcher, 
unable to repress a cry of pain, bent forward, stuck in his belly, the pitchfork unbalanced him 
and he fell to his knees, and slid onto the pavement. Blood spilled with a murmur and a 
splash worthy of a waterfall. 
Geralt tried to stand. Instead he collapsed on his side. 
The sounds that surrounded him, acquired resonances and echoes, heard as if underwater. 
His eyes deceived him, with impaired perspective and completely false geometry. 
He saw the crowd disperse. They escaped from those who were coming to his aid. Zoltan 
and Yarpen with axes, Wirsing with his butcher knife and Dandelion armed with a broom. 

He wanted to scream, where are you going? It is not worth pissing in the wind for me. But 
he could not scream. His voice was stifled by a wave of blood. 
 
*** 
 
It was noon, when the sorceresses arrived in Rivia, within sight of the shiny surface of 
Loc Eskalott, the towers of the castle and the red roofs of the city. 
'We're here,' said Yennefer. 'Rivia. What a curious and entangled destiny.' 
Ciri was excited and Kelpie kept dancing and shuffling on the edge of the road. Triss 
Merigold sighed unnoticed. Rather, she believed it had been unnoticed. 
'Please,' Yennefer looked at he. 'What strange sounds float from you beauteous breast, 
Triss. Ciri, go out and see what lies ahead.' 
Triss averted her face, determined not to give Yennefer any excuse. She sis not expect it 
to work. For a long time she had been sensing Yennefer's anger and aggression growing 
stronger as they approached Rivia. 
'You, Triss,' Yennefer mischievously insisted, 'do not blush, do not sigh, do not drool or 
wiggle around in your saddle. Or is it that you think because I agreed to your request that I 
want to have you with us? That I was interested in seeing you spend a meeting with an old 
love? Ciri, I asked you to go on ahead. The two of us need to talk!' 
'It is not a discussion, it is a lecture,' Ciri dared to argue, but under the threatening glare 
from violet eyes, she immediately recoiled, clucked and galloped off on Kelpie on the road 
ahead. 
'You're not going to meet a loved one, Triss,' Yennefer continued. 'I am not so noble or 
stupid enough to give you the opportunity, or him the temptation. But just for today. I could 
not deny myself the sweet satisfaction. He knows what role you play as a member of the 
Lodge. He will thank you for that with his famous look. And I'll be looking at your quivering 
lips and trembling hands, I will listen to your lame apologies and excuses. And you know 
what, Triss? I will faint with delight.' 
'I knew,' Triss grunted. 'That you would not forget, that you would take your revenge. I 
agreed to this, because I was actually at fault. But one thing I must tell you, Yennefer. Do 
not count too much on fainting. He knows how to forgive.' 
'He knows what was done to him, of course,' Yennefer narrowed her eyes. 'But he will 
never forgive you for what was done to Ciri. And me.' 
'It is possible,' Triss swallowed. 'He may not forgive. Especially if you insist. But he 
won't fly into a rage. He won't lower himself like that.' 
Yennefer flicked her horse with her whip in anger. The animal whinnied and leapt and the 
sorceress swayed in her saddle. 
'Enough talk,' she snapped. 'more humility, you smug viper! He is my man, mine and only 
mine! Do you understand? You have to stop talking about him, to stop thinking about him, 
you have to stop admiring his noble character... As of right now, right now! Oh I want to grab 
you by your matted red hair...' 
'Try it!' screamed Triss. 'Just try it, you vindictive bitch and I'll scratch out your eyes!' I...' 
The both fell silent when they saw the cloud of dust as Ciri galloped back towards them. 
They immediately understood that something was happening. Even before Ciri had reach 
them. 
Above the thatched roofs and red tiles, suddenly shot out red tongues of flame and 
belching clouds of smoke. To the sorceresses ears came a sound like the intrusive buzz of 
flies, or the buzzing of angry bees. Screams grew stronger in counterpoint to the buzzing. 
'What the hell is going on?' Yennefer stood in her stirrups. 'A raid? A fire?' 
'Geralt...' Ciri suddenly groaned, turning as white as paper. 'Geralt!' 

'Ciri? What is the matter?' 
Ciri raised her hand and the sorceresses saw blood running down her palm. Down the life 
line. 
'He has come full circle,' said the girl, her eyes closed. 'e hurt me with the thorn from 
Shaerrawedd, the snake Uroboros biting his own tail. I'm coming, Geralt! I'm coming to you! 
I will not leave you alone!' 
Before the sorceresses were able to protest, she turned Kelpie and immediately went into 
a full gallop. 
They had enough presence of mind to immediately kick their horses into a gallop. But 
their mounts were not able to keep pace with Kelpie. 
'What is it?' shouted Yennefer, cutting the wind. 'What is going on?' 
'You know!' sobbed Triss, galloping at her side. 'Ride, Yennefer!' 
They had ridden between the city's outskirts before they passed their first fugitives fleeing 
from the city, Yennefer was bright enough to know what was happening in Rivia, no fire or 
raid of troops, but a pogrom. She also knew what Ciri had sensed, what -and whom - she was 
rushing too. She knew that she could not catch her. There was nothing she could do. 
Frightened people had compacted into a crowd and she and Triss had to slow their 
mounts to try and get through. Kelpie just jumped, the hooves of the horse knocking off a few 
hats and caps. 
'Ciri! Stop!' 
Before they knew it, they were among the streets crowded with people running and 
screaming. Yennefer, as she rode, saw bodies lying in gutters and noticed bodies hanging by 
their legs from posts and beams. She saw a dwarf lying on the ground, pounded by cudgels, 
she saw another who had been massacred with broken bottlenecks. She heard tormentors 
shout ad the screams of the tortured. She saw a woman thrown out of a window to the waiting 
crowd below an then beaten with sticks. 
The crowd thickened, the roar grew. It seemed that the distance between them and ciri 
had decreased. The next obstacle was a group of halberdiers, who tried to fence the black 
mare in before Kelpie jumped over them. One was knocked to the ground and the rest 
cowered in fright. 
They rushed into a square, which was covered in acrid smoke. Yennefer realised that Ciri, 
undoubtedly guided by a prophetic vision, was heading to the heat of the incident. Where the 
fires burned and murder was raging. 
In the next street there was fighting, dwarves and elves were fiercely defending 
themselves from behind a hastily erected barricade, defending a helpless position, falling and 
perishing under the pressure of the screaming mob that pounced on them. Ciri screamed and 
clung to the neck of her mare. Kelpie rose into the air and jumped over the barricade, not like 
a horse, but lie a huge black bird. 
Yennefer rain into the crowd, but pulled her horse up short, knocking over several people. 
She was pulled from the saddle before she had time to scream. She was beaten on the 
shoulders, on her back and neck. She fell to her knees, and saw an unshaven man, wearing a 
cobbler's apron, who was preparing to kick. 
Yennefer had had enough of being kicked. 
From her extended fingers shot a bolt of blue flame, which whistled like a whip, burning 
the face, torso and arms of the people striking her. It started to smell of burning flesh and the 
screams of pain, raised above the surrounding noise and din. 
'Witch! Elf sorceress!' 
Another man rushed at her brandishing an axe. Yennefer shot flames into his face, his 
eyeballs boiled and them burst, running down his cheeks with a hiss. She relaxed, someone 
grabbed her by the arm, and Yennefer pulled ready to shot, but it was Triss. 

'Let's go... Yenna... Run!' 
I've already heard that voice, Yennefer thought. From those lips that look wooded, 
without a droplet of saliva to wet them. from those lips that is paralysed with terror and 
shakes with panic. I've already heard that voice. On the Hill at Sodden. 
When I was dying in fear. 
Now he is dying in fear. Until the end of my days I'm going to be scared to death. Because 
those who do not break the cowardice, will be scared to death until the end of their days. 
The fingers that Triss dug into her arm were like steel, Yennefer liberated herself from the 
grip with a great effort. 
'Run if you want!' she shouted. 'Hide under the skirts of the Lodge! I have to nothing left 
to defend! I will not leave Ciri alone! Or Geralt! Begone! Get out of my way if you 
appreciate your skin!' 
The crowd keeping her away from her horse, retreated before the rays given off by the 
hands and eyes of the sorceress. Yennefer shook her head, ruffling her black curls. she seem 
to be fury incarnate, the avenging angel, with her flaming sword. 
'Return home, scum!' she cried, leaping at the crowd with a fiery whip. 'Run! Otherwise 
catch fire like cattle!' 
'It's just one witch, people!' A sonorous voice rang from the crowd. 'One cursed elf witch!' 
'She's alone! The other has fled! Hey, bring us the stones!' 
'Death to non-humans! Death to witches!' 
'To the gallows with her!' 
The first stone whizzed past her ear. The second hit her in the shoulder and rocked her 
back. The third struck her in the face. Pain exploded behind her eyes, then everything was 
wrapped in black velvet. 
 
*** 
 
She came to, and groaned in pain. Both of her forearms and wrists ached like crazy. She 
mechanically fumbled around and noticed several layers of bandages. She groaned again, 
without words, desperate. With regret that this was not a dream. And regretting to have not 
succeeded. 
'It did not work,' Tissaia de Vries said, sitting next to the bed. 
Yennefer wanted a drink, something to wet her sticky lips. But she did not ask. Her pride 
would not allow it. 
'It did not work,' said Tissaia de Vries. 'But not because you did not try. You cut yourself 
deeply and accurately. Therefore, I am now with you. If you did not mean it seriously, if it 
was just a ridiculous, bogus exhibition, I have only contempt for you. But you cut yourself 
deep. Seriously.' 
Yennefer numbly stared at the ceiling. 
'I will take care of you, girl I think you are worth it. I'll work with you here. It will not be 
easy. I have to straighten the spine and flatten the hump. But I also have to treat those hands. 
When you cut your veins, you severed tendons. And the hands of a sorceress are a very 
important instrument, Yennefer.' 
Moister on her lips. Water. 
'You'll live,' said Tissaia factually, seriously, even severe. 'Your time is yet to come. But 
when it arrives, you'll remember this day.' 
Yennefer eagerly suck moisture from a stick wrapped in a wet dressing. 
'I'll take care of you,' echoed Tissaia de Vries, touching her hair gently. 'And now... We're 
here alone, without witnesses. Not one is looking at us, and I'm not going to say anything to 

anyone. Cry, girl. Pour it all out. Make it your last cry. Starting now you will never cry. There 
is nothing more pathetic than a sorceress in tears.' 
 
*** 
 
She came too, coughing and spitting blood. Someone had dragged her across the ground, 
it was Triss, she was met by the smell of her perfume. Close to them, on the pavement, shod 
hooves rang, with a vibrated clang. Yennefer saw a rider in full armour, with a white shield 
with a red chevron, from the height of his saddle he was whipping the crowd. Stones hurled 
by the mob bounced harmlessly off on the armour and helmet. The horse neighed and kicked 
out. 
Yennefer felt that instead of an upper lip, she had a big potato. At least one front tooth 
was chipped or knocked out and it hurt to talk. 
'Triss...' she stammered. 'Teleport us out of here!' 
'No, Yennefer,' Triss's voice was very quiet and very cold. 
'They'll kill us...' 
'No, Yennefer. I will not run away. I will not hide under the skirts of the Lodge. And even 
though it I am ready to faint with fear, like at Sodden, I will get over it!' 
Near the entrance of the alley, on the ledge of a wall covered with moss, had formed a 
large pile of manure, debris and trash. It was a colossal heap. A splendid hill. 
The crowd had finally managed to knock the knight from his horse. He was dragged to 
the ground with a terrible crash and the mob crawled over him like lice. 
Triss grabbed Yennefer and dragged her towards the pile of rubbish and raised her hands. 
She shouted a spell with such rage, that the crowd fell silent for a moment. 
'They will kill us,' Yennefer spat blood. 
'Help me, Yennefer, 'Triss stopped for a moment. 'help me. Let's cast Alzur's Thunder...' 
That will kill five, thought Yennefer. Then the rest will tear us apart. But okay, Triss. I 
will not run away. You will not see me run. 
She joined in the enchantment. And they shouted in duet. 
The people stared at them blankly, staring, but quickly recovered. They again began 
throwing stones at the sorceresses. Triss felt one whizz pass her head, but did not flinch. 
It won't work, thought Yennefer. The spell will not work. We cannot conjure up 
something as complicated as Alzur's Thunder. It was said that Alzur had a voice like a bell 
and superior diction. And we are babbling and crying the words and melody... 
She was ready to stop the chant and use her remaining strength to concentrate on some 
other spell, something to teleport them, or to distract the charging mob - if only for a second - 
with something unpleasant. But it turned out it was not necessary. 
The sky darkened suddenly with clouds over the city. The shadows spread quickly. And a 
cold wind rose. 
'Oh,' said Yennefer. 'It seems that you did it...' 
 
*** 
 
'Merigold's Hailstorm,' said Nimue. 'Basically, the name is used illegally, since the magic 
has never been registered, and no one has been able to repeat it. The reason is simple - Triss 
had an injured mouth and spoke slurred and distorted. Some also claim that fear affected her 
language.' 
'I do not believe it,' Condwiramurs pursed her lips. 'In the annals there is no shortage of 
other examples of courage and heroism from Venerable Triss, some even call her chronically 

fearless. But I wanted to ask you about something else. On version of the legend has it that 
Triss was not alone on Rivia Hill. That Yennefer was also there with her.' 
Nimue looked at the watercolour depicting a black mountain, steep and sharp as a knife, 
against dark blue clouds. At the top of the hill could be seen a slender silhouette of a woman 
with outstretched arms and red hair. 
Through the fog that covered the surface of the water came the rhythmic clatter of the 
Fisher King's oars. 
'If anyone was there with Triss,' said the Lady of the Lake, 'they did not survive the vision 
of the artist.' 
 
*** 
 
'It seems that you did it,' said Yennefer. 'Watch out, Triss!' 
From the black clouds over the city of Rivia fell a barrage of icy hailstones the size of 
hens eggs. They beat down so hard they broke rooftops. They fell so densely that they 
covered the streets and squares in a thick layer of ice. The crowd swayed, people fell, 
covering their heads, hiding under one another and fleeing and falling on the slippery ground, 
rolling about and crowding the archways under ledges. Not everyone managed to escape, 
some remained lying on the ice like dead fish, which was heavily dyed with blood. 
Hail rattled on the magical shield that Yennefer was able to throw up at the last minute 
above both sorceresses and threatened to break through. She did not try any other spells. She 
knew what had been done, could not be stopped, an elemental force had been accidently 
unleashed and had to reach its climax. Which it would soon reach. 
That was the hope, at least. 
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed until the surrounding houses were shaken to their 
foundation. All beat all around with a devastating effect. The sky began to brighten. From a 
cleft in the clouds appeared sunlight. Triss made a strange cry or sob from her throat. 
Hail sparkled in the sun like diamonds. They were still falling, but the biggest downpour 
had abated, Yennefer could tell by the pounding on the magical shield, then the hail stopped. 
Suddenly, as if cut off. Guards stormed into the street, the shoes of their horses scraped on the 
ice. The rabble screamed and fled, whipped by whips and beaten with the flats of swords. 
'Bravo, Triss,' croaked Yennefer. 'I don't know what that was... But it was effective.' 
'There was something to defend,' croaked Triss Merigold - heroine of the hill. 
'There always is. We better run, Triss. Because it is probably not over yet.' 
 
*** 
 
That was the end. The sorceresses hail that they had launched at the city had cooled the 
hot heads. So much so that the army dared to intervene and restore order. Until then the 
soldiers had been afraid. They knew what they were threatened with in case of an attack by 
the feverish crowd with a thirst for death and who fears nothing. However, the explosion of 
the elements tamed the many-headed beast and the army charged and did the rest. 
The hail was a terrible disaster for the city. And so, men who had moments ago tried to 
kill a dwarf by smashing his head against a wall, now sobbing, looked at what remained of 
his house. 
In Rivia all was quiet. If it had not been for the two hundred massacred corpses and some 
burning houses, you might have thought that nothing had happened. 
In the Elms district, next to Loc Eskalott, over which burned a rainbow in the sky, and the 
weeping willows reflected in the clear mirror of the water, the birds sang again and the grass 
smelled wet. Everything looked idyllic. 

Even the witcher who lay in a pool of blood in which Ciri knelt. 
 
*** 
 
Geralt lay senseless, white as chalk. He lay motionless, but when they reached him, he 
began to cough, and to spit blood. He began to shake and to tremble so violently that Ciri 
could not hold him. Yennefer knelt beside him. Triss saw her hands shaking. Suddenly she 
felt very weak and her vision blurred. Someone grabbed her, preventing her from falling on 
the ground. She recognised Dandelion. 
'It won't work,' said Ciri's voice, radiating despair. 'Your magic cannot cure him, 
Yennefer.' 
'We arrived...' Yennefer could barely move her lips. 'We're too late.' 
'Your magic won't work, 'Ciri repeated as if she had not heard. 'Is this what it is worth, all 
of your magic?' 
You're right, Ciri, Triss thought, feeling something catch in her throat. We can produce 
hail, but we cannot ward off death. Although apparently the latter is easier. 
'We sent for physician,' said a dwarf standing next to Dandelion, in a husky voice,. 'but 
he has not appeared...' 
'it is too late for a doctor,' Triss said, surprising herself that her voice sounded so calm. 
'He is dying.' 
Geralt continued to stir, coughing blood, then becoming very tense and froze. Dandelion, 
still holding Triss, sighed in despair, the dwarf cursed. Yennefer moaned, her face changing 
suddenly, contracted and ugly. 
'There is nothing more pathetic,' said Ciri sternly, 'than a sorceress in tears. You taught 
me that. But now you're pathetic Yennefer. You and your magic, which is useless.' 
Yennefer did not reply. She could barely hold Geralt's head in both of her hands, while 
repeating a spell. In her hands, the witcher's cheeks and forehead crackled with blue sparks. 
Triss know how much energy was required for that spell. She also knew that the spell 
would not help. She was even more confident that the spell would prove powerless for 
someone who was sterile. It was too late. The spell only exhausted Yennefer. Triss was 
surprised that the black-haired sorceress was able to withstand for so long. 
Then she ceased to be surprised because Yennefer stopped in the middle of the magic 
formula and fell on the pavement next to the witcher. 
One of the dwarves swore again, the other bowed his head in silence. triss Merigold still 
being propped up sniffed loudly. 
Suddenly it got very cold. The surface of the lake boiled like a witch's cauldron and was 
enveloped in mist. The fog grew rapidly, it swirled over the water and stood on the waves., 
covering them in a think white milk, that stifled and sounds and made shapes and figures 
vanish. 
'I,' Ciri said slowly, still kneeling on the bloody ground, 'I once gave up my power. If I 
didn't, I could save him now. I could cure him. I know it. But it is too late, I can't do anything. 
It is like I killed him myself.' 
The silence was broken by Kelpie's whinny. Then by Dandelion's muffled gasp. 
They were all stunned. 
 
*** 
 
A white unicorn appeared out of the mist, running light, agile and silent, lifting his 
beautiful head. This was not just anything unusual, they all knew the legend, and the passage 

about the fact that unicorns run lights, agile and silently. What was strange was that the 
unicorn was running on the surface of the lake, and did not even wrinkle the water. 
Dandelion gasped, this time in awe. Triss felt overwhelmed by her emotions. Euphoria. 
The unicorn's hooves rang on the stones of the waterfront. He shook his mane and horn 
and melodically neighed. 
'Ihuarraquax,' Ciri spoke to him. 'I was hoping you'd come.' 
The unicorn came closer, neighing again and digging his hooves into the hard 
cobblestones. He lowered his head, the horn which sprang from his head suddenly blazed 
with light, with a sheen that dispelled the fog. 
Ciri touched the horn. 
Triss gasped loudly when she saw the girl's eyes filled with white heat and her head 
enveloped in a halo. Ciri did not hear her, did not hear anyone. With one hand she touched 
the unicorn's horn, with the other she touched the witcher. From her fingers drifted a ribbon 
of flickering light. 
No one could say how long it lasted. It was unreal. 
Like a dream. 
 
*** 
 
The unicorn snorted, pawed at the ground several times and move his head as if pointing 
at something. Triss looked. Under a canopy of overhanging willow branches she could 
discern a dark outline in the mist. A boat sailing on the water. 
The unicorn once more shook its horn and began to disappear in the white fog. 
'Kelpie,' Ciri said. 'Go with him.' 
Kelpie snorted. She shook her head. Then obediently walked behind the unicorn. Her 
shoes made an echoing sound on the cobblestones. Then the sound abruptly stopped, as if the 
mare had taken flight, disappeared or dematerialised. 
The boat was on the shore, a few moments after the fog dissolved, Triss saw it clearly. It 
was a tatty old barge, formless as a trough in a barn. 
'Help me,' Ciri said, firmly and decisively. 
At first no one knew what the girl wanted help with. The poet was the first to understand. 
Perhaps because he knew the legend that he frequently lectured on and sang its verses. In his 
arms he picked up Yennefer. He marvelled at how small and light she was. He would have 
sworn that someone helped him lift her. He would have sworn that he felt Cahir's arms 
helping. That he caught a glimpse of Milva's braid. He would have sworn that when he took 
the sorceress to the boat, he saw Angouleme's little had holding it steady. 
The dwarves picked up the witcher, Triss helped them, holding his head. Yarpen Zigrin 
blinked for a second, because he saw the two Dahlberg brothers. Zoltan Chivay would have 
sworn that Caleb Stratton help him lift the witcher into the boat. Triss Merigold was sure that 
she could smell the perfume of Lytta Neyd called Coral and in a haze of yellow-green her 
eyes saw Coen of Kaer Morhen. 
These tricks were brought to their minds by the dense fog around Loc Eskalott. 
'Ready, Ciri,' the sorceress said dully. 'You boat is waiting.' 
Ciri brushed the hair from her forehead and sniffed. 
'Apologise to the ladies at Montecalvo, Triss,' she said. 'But it can be no other way. I 
cannot stay if Geralt and Yennefer leave. I simple cannot. They must understand.' 
'They must.' 
'Goodbye, Triss Merigold. Take care, Dandelion. Take care all.' 
'Ciri,' Triss whispered. 'Little sister... Let me sail with you...' 
'You do not know what you ask, Triss.' 

'Will I ever see you...' 
'Definitely,' she interrupted. 
She climbed aboard the boat, which rocked and immediately began to move away from 
the shore. It disappeared into the fog. Those on the shore did not hear the slightest splash and 
there was no movement in the water. It was as if it had disappeared, like a ghost. 
For a brief moment they saw the small silhouette of Ciri, they saw her sitting at the 
bottom of the boat as it accelerated swiftly. 
And then there was only fog. 
She lied, thought Triss. I will never see her again. i won't see her, because... Vaesse 
deireadh aep eigean. Something ends. 
'Something ends,' said Dandelion. 
'Something begins,' Yarpen Zigrin finished. 
From somewhere on the other side of the lake a cock crowed loudly. 
The fog began to rapidly lift. 
 
*** 
 
Geralt opened his eyes irritated by the play of light and shadow through his closed 
eyelids. He saw above him leaves, a kaleidoscope of leaves glistening in the sun. He also saw 
branches full of apples. 
He felt the delicate touch of fingers on his temple and his cheek. Fingers he knew. He 
loved her so much that it hurt. His stomach, chest and ribs aches, and a corset of tight 
bandages convinced him completely that the pitchfork in the city of Rivia had not been a 
nightmare. 
'Lay quietly, my love,' said Yennefer. 'Lay quietly. Do not move.' 
'Where are we, Yen?' 
'Does it matter? We are together. you and me.' 
The birds sang. It smelled of herbs, rosemary flowers and apples. 
'Where is Ciri?' 
'She is gone.' 
She shifted and gently freed her arm from under his head, and lay beside him on the grass 
so that she could look into his eyes. She looked eagerly, as if she would memorise his image, 
as if to save it for the future, for all eternity. He also looked at her as nostalgia gripped his 
throat. 
'We were in a boat with Ciri,' Geralt recalled. 'On a lake. the on a river with a strong 
current. Among the fog.' 
He fingers found his hand and squeezed hard. 
'Lay still, my love. Lay still. I'm with you. It does not matter what happened, it does not 
matter where we were. Now I'm with you. I will never leave you. Never.' 
'I love you, Yen.' 
'I know.' 
'Nevertheless,' he sighed. 'I'd like to know where we are.' 
'Me too,' Yennefer said, quietly, after a while. 
 
*** 
 
'And that,' Galahad asked, 'is the end of the story?' 
'Certainly not,' said Ciri, rubbing one foot against the other, trying to get rid f the sand 
sticking to her feet. 'You want it to end? I do not!' 
'So what happened next?' 

'The normal,' she snorted. 'They got married.' 
'Tell me.' 
'What's to tell? The celebrate with a big wedding. They invited everyone - Dandelion, 
Mother Nenneke, Iola and Eurneid, Yarpen Zigrin, Vesemir, Eskel... Coen, Milva, 
Angouleme... And Mistle. I was there too, and we were drinking wine and mead. And they, 
Yennefer and Geralt, built a house and the live there happily ever after. Like in a fairytale. Do 
you understand?' 
'Why are you crying, Lady of the Lake?' 
'I'm not crying, the tears in my eyes are from the wind!' 
There was a long silence and they watched the sun go down over the mountain peaks. 
'Upon my soul,' Galahad said after a while. 'It was a unheard of story. Strange is the world 
from which you came, Lady Ciri.' 
She sniffed loudly. 
'Yes,' continued Galahad, clearing his throat a few times, somewhat depressed by the 
silence. 'But here in our lands, adventure occurs, worthy of wonder. Take for example what 
happen with Lord Gawain and the Green Knight... Or my uncle Bors and Tristan... Listen 
then, Lady Ciri. Lord Bors and Lord Tristan were riding to the west, towards Tintagel. Their 
path led them through a wild and threatening forest. They continued to ride and keep a 
careful watch. Then there appeared a white deer and next to it a lady, dressed all in black, as 
black as anything you have seen in your nightmares. And that lady was beautiful, more 
beautiful than any lady in the world, well not Lady Guinevere... The knights saw the lady 
standing next to the deer and waved and she told them this...' 
'Galahad.' 
'Yes?' 
'Be quiet.' 
He coughed, and fell silent. Both were silent staring at the sun. they stayed that way for a 
long time. 
'Lady of the Lake?' 
'I asked you not to call me that.' 
'Lady Ciri?' 
'Go ahead.' 
'Come with me to Camelot, Lady Ciri. You have to meet King Arthur, he will show you 
honour and reverence... I will... I will always love and worship...' 
'Get up! Or not. While you are kneeling you can rub my feet. they are hurting me terribly. 
Thank you. you are very kind. I said my feet! Feet end at the ankles.' 
'Lady Ciri?' 
'I'm still here.' 
'The sun is about to set...' 
'That's the truth,' Ciri bent down and buckled her shoes, then stood up. 'We'll saddle the 
horses, Galahad. Is there somewhere around here where we can spend the night? Ha! From 
your look I can see you know this land about as well as me. But no matter, let us set out, 
whether to sleep in the open or in the woods. Let's not let twilight catch us near the lake. The 
night will be very cold here... What are you looking at?' 
'Oh,' she said seeing the young man blush. 'You're smiling at the thought of spending the 
night in a carpet of moss bed under a hazel bush? In the arms of a fairy? Listen well, young 
man, I do not have the slightest desire...' 
She paused, looking at his blush and sparkling eyes. Seeing something there, in his face, 
which was not really ugly. Something squeezed her stomach and gut, and it was not hunger. 
Something is happening to me, she though. What's wrong with me? 
'Do not bother!' she almost cried. 'Let's saddle the horses!' 

When they were in the saddle, she looked at him and laughed out loud. He looked at her, 
his eyes filled with amazement and questions. 
'Nothing, nothing,' she said easily. 'It was just something I was thinking. Led the way, 
Galahad.' 
Carpet of moss, she thought, holding back a chuckle. A hazel bush. And me in the role of 
a fairy. Well, well. 
'Lady Ciri...' 
'What?' 
'Will you come with me to Camelot?' 
She held out her hand. He held out his hand. Holding hands, they rode side by side. 
The devil, she thought, why not? I bet any money that this world has jobs for a witcheress. 
'Lady Ciri?' 
'Let's not talk about it now. Let's ride.' 
They rode off towards the sunset. Behind them they left a darkening valley. Behind them 
was a lake, and enchanted lake, a lake blue and smooth as a polished sapphire. Behind them 
were left the boulders littering the shore. And pine trees on the slope. 
That was left behind them. 
And everything else was in front of them.