Baptism of Fire

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘And who do you think Kovir would choose without pressure? A girl of the royal family, with royal blood in her veins for generations. A young girl, suitable for a young prince. A girl who can give birth, because this is about a dynasty. That sets the bar and excludes you, Philippa and excludes me, it even excludes Keira and Triss, the youngest among us. It also excludes all adepts from my school, which, after all, are not very interesting because the buds of the petals are still of an unknown color, it is unthinkable that any one of them could sit with us as at the empty place at this table as the twelfth. In other words, even if the whole of Kovir goes mad and was willing to accept the king’s marriage to a sorceress, a sorceress cannot be found. So who is to be this Queen of the North?’

  ‘A girl of royal blood,’ Philippa replied calmly. ‘In whose veins runs the royal blood, the blood of several of the greatest dynasties. Young and able to give birth. A girl with unprecedented capabilities and divinatory magic, one who carries the Elder Blood. A girl who can play with flying colors your role without conductors, directors or gray eminences, because it is her destiny. A girl, whose abilities will be known only to us. Cirilla, daughter of Pavetta of Cintra and granddaughter of the Lioness Calanthe. Elder Blood, White Flame of the North, Destroyer and Rebuilder, whose coming was foretold hundreds of years ago. Ciri of Cintra, the Queen of the North. And from her blood will be born, the Queen of the World.’

  At the sight of the Rats dropping down in ambush, two of the riders escorting the carriage turned away and fled. They did not stand a chance. Giselher, Reef and Iskra cut off their retreat and after a short struggle unceremoniously slit their throats. Kayleigh, Asse and Mistle fell on the remaining two, who were ready to desperately defend the carriage that was drawn by four horses. Ciri felt an overwhelming disappointment and anger. They had left her with none. It looked like she was not going to get to kill.

  But there was still one rider, a young man riding a fast horse who was at the front of the carriage. He could have fled, but did not. He turned and drew his sword and galloped straight at Ciri. She stopped her little horse and allowed him to approach. When her struck, rising in his stirrups, she hung from the saddle, nimbly avoiding his blade, she then straighten in her saddle again. The young man was a fast and agile swordsman and struck again. This time she deflected it sideways and feinted towards his face. He instinctively tried to shield his face and her sword slipped over his blade and slashed up under his armpit in a way she had practiced for hours at Kaer Morhen. The Nilfgaardian slipped from his saddle, fell to the floor, then rose to his knees, howling, trying wildly to stem the violent flow of blood pumping from his artery. Ciri watched him for a moment, fascinated as always by the sight of a man who struggled with all his might against death. She waited for him to bleed to death. Then she left without looking back.

  The ambush was over. The escort were lying at their feet. Reef and Asse had stopped the carriage, holding up a pair of men holding the reins. The man, who was clinging to the right rein, a young man in colored livery, fell to the ground, crying and begging for mercy. The coachman threw down his reins and also begged for mercy, clasping his hands as if in prayer. Giselher, Iskra and Mistle approached the carriage, Kayleigh jumped down from his horse and jerked open the door. Ciri pulled her horse up closer and dismounted, still holding in her hand the sword covered in blood.

  In the carriage sat a plump matron in robes and a cap, embracing a terribly pale young girl dressed in black, buttoned to the neck with a lace collar. The dress Ciri noticed was fastened with a gem. Very beautiful.

  ‘Those are very pretty roans!’ Iskra clapped her hands at the sight of the draft horses. ‘As pretty as a picture! We will get a pile of Florens for those!’

  ‘And the carriage.’ Kayleigh showed his teeth to the woman and the girl. ‘the groom and the coachman will pull it into town. And when the road leads up hills the noble ladies will get out and help.’

  ‘Gentleman robbers!’ the matron groaned in terror, clearly more scared of Kayleigh’s smile than the blood covered sword in Ciri’s hand. ‘I appeal to your honor! Do not defile this young girl!’

  ‘Hey, Mistle,’ Kayleigh shouted, laughing mockingly. ‘They, from what I hear, they are appealing to your honor!’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Giselher grimaced, still in the saddle. ‘No one is amused by your jokes. And you, calm down woman. We are the Rats. We do not fight with women or damage them. Reef, Spark, release the harness! Mistle, seize the horses! And be quick about it!’

  ‘We are the Rats and we do not fight with women,’ Kayleigh barred his teeth gain, staring at the pale face of the girl in the black dress. ‘Sometimes we only amuse ourselves with them, if the desire. And you miss? Do you not have an itch between the legs? Well, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Just nod your head.’

  ‘A little respect!’ Cried the lady in the cap with a broken voice. ‘How dare you talk like that to the baroness, outlaw?’

  Kayleigh laughed and exaggerated a bow.

  ‘I ask forgiveness. I did not mean to offend. What, am I not allowed to even ask?’

  ‘Kayleigh!’ called Iskra. ‘Come here! Why are you loitering? Help me release the harness! Falka! Move!’

  Ciri did not take her eyes off the coat of arms on the door of the carriage, a silver unicorn on a black background. A unicorn, she thought. I once saw such a unicorn... When? In another life? Or maybe it was just a dream?

  ‘Falka! What’s wrong with you?’

  I am Falka. But I was not always. Not always.

  She pursed her lips together. I have been unpleasant to Mistle, she thought. I have hurt her. I have to apologize in some way.

  She put her foot on the ladder of the carriage, looking at the gem on the dress of the pale girl.

  ‘Give it.’ She said dryly.

  ‘How dare you?’ choked the matron. ‘Do you know who you are talking to? She is the noble-born Baroness of Casadei!’

  Ciri looked around and made sure no one could hear.

  ‘Baroness?’ she hissed. ‘A low title. And even if this baby was a countess she would have to bend down to me so far that her ass would be on the ground and her head lower. Give me the brooch! What are you waiting for? Do I have to tear it from you, along with the corset?’

  The silence that ensued at the table following the speech by Philippa Eilhart was shortly replaced by a cacophony. The sorceresses expressed surprise and disbelief, demanding explanations. Some no doubt knew a lot about this foreseen ruler of the North, Cirilla or Ciri another name they were familiar with, but they knew less. Fringilla Vigo knew nothing about the suspicions and speculations, and concentrated mainly on a certain lock of hair. Assire, however, remained silent and commanded her with a look that she stay silent. Philippa Eilhart took the floor again.

  ‘Most of us saw Ciri on Thanedd, where she was in a trance and her predictions caused considerable commotion. Some of us have even had close contact with her. I speak mostly of you, Yennefer. It is time you spoke.’

  When Yennefer told the audience about Ciri, Triss Merigold closely watched her friend. Yennefer spoke calmly and without emotion, but Triss had known her for a long time and very well. She had seen her in many situations, including those that had caused stress, tiredness and depression. It was without a doubt that Yennefer was in this kind of situation. She looked dejected, tired and sick.

  The sorceress spoke, but Triss, who knew both the story and the person to which it referred, was devoted to quietly watching all those listening. Especially the two witches from Nilfgaard. Assire var Anahid, had changed much, looking very carefully but it was obvious she still felt insecure about her makeup and fashionable dress. And Fringilla Vigo, the youngest, friendly, with a natural grace and simple elegance, with green eyes and hair as black as Yennefer’s, but less abundant, shorter and combed smooth.

  Both Nilfgaardians did not seemed lost among the intricacies of the history of Ciri, although Yennefer’s story wa
s long and rather confusing, beginning with the famous love affair in Cintra of Pavetta and the young man enchanted to be a hedgehog. She spoke about the role of Geralt and the Law of Surprise and the binding of Ciri to the witcher.

  Yennefer spoke about Geralt meeting Ciri in Brokilon, about the war, about her disappearance and discovery, of her training in Kaer Morhen. About the Nilfgaardian agent, Rience and how he was chasing the girl. About her study in the temple of Melitele and Ciri’s mysterious abilities.

  They listen with stone faces, thought Triss, looking at Assire and Fringilla. Like sphinxes. But it is clear that they are masking something. Curious, I wonder what it is? Are they surprised because they did not know Emhyr was trying to kidnap her to Nilfgaard? Or is it that they have known everything for a long time, maybe even more than we do? Yennefer will speak in a moment about her arrival at Thanedd with Ciri, about what was said in the prophetic trance, which caused such a fuss. Of the bloody struggle in Garstang, which resulted in Geralt being mutilated and Ciri being kidnapped. Then the pretending will come to an end, thought Triss, the mask will drop. Everyone knows that the affair on Thanedd was Nilfgaard’s doing. And when all eyes are turned to you, Nilfgaardians, there will be no other way, you will have to talk. And then clarify some issues, then I too can find out more. How Yennefer disappeared from Thanedd, why she has suddenly appeared her in Montecalvo, along with Francesca. And who is and what role does Ida Emean, Aen Saevherne from the Blue Mountains play. Why do I have the feeling that Philippa Eilhart is saying less than she knows, but declares her devotion and loyalty to magic, and not Dijkstra, who she constantly exchanges correspondence.

  And maybe I’ll finally learn who Ciri really is. Cirilla, Queen of the North to them, but to me an ash-haired little girl from Kaer Morhen, who I remember as a younger sister.

  Fringilla Vigo had heard a bit about witcher, professional individuals who were accustomed to killing monsters and beasts. She attentively listened to Yennefer’s story, listened to the sound of her voice, watching her face. She was not fooled. A strong emotional bond between Yennefer and Ciri was evident. Equally obvious, however, was the relationship between the sorceress and the witcher. Fringilla began to reflect, but raised voices disturbed her thoughts.

  She had already guessed that some of those collected here were in opposite camps during the Thanedd rebellion; she was not surprised, therefore, when the antipathies came to the table in the form of remarks aimed at Yennefer. It looked as if a quarrel was to break out, which was prevented by Philippa Eilhart who unceremoniously banged her open palm onto the top of the table until the cups and goblets rang.

  ‘Enough!’ she shouted. ‘Shut up, Sabrina! Do not let them provoke you, Francesca! Enough about Thanedd and Garstang. That is history!’

  History, Fringilla thought, with mixed feelings. But history, which they helped to create, albeit from opposite camps. They had expected it. They knew what they were doing and why. And we, the Imperial Sorceresses, we know nothing. In fact, we are like girls on errands, she thought, they know that they are sent, but do not know why. Well, she thought, because of it occurring it has created this Lodge. The devil knows how it will end, but it is to begin.

  ‘Continue, Yennefer.’ Philippa said.

  ‘I have nothing more to say.’ The black-haired sorceress pursed her lips. ‘I repeat, it was Tissaia de Vries who ordered me to bring Ciri to Garstang.’

  ‘It is easier to blame everything on the dead.’ Sabrina Glevissig snorted, but Philippa silenced her with a sudden gesture.

  ‘I did not want to interfere in what was happening in Aretuza,’ said Yennefer, pale and clearly upset. ‘I wanted to take Ciri and escape from Thanedd. But Tissaia convinced me that the appearance of the girl at Garstang would be a shock to many and her brought before them in a trance speaking prophesy would avert the conflict. I cast no blame on her, because I thought the same. The two of us make a mistake. But mine was bigger. If I had left Ciri in Rita’s care...’

  ‘What has happened cannot be undone.’ Philippa interrupted. ‘Mistakes can happened to anyone. Even Tissaia de Vries. When did Tissaia first see Ciri?’

  ‘Three days before the convention,’ said Margarita Laux-Antille, ‘in Gors Velen. I met her there too. And as soon as I saw her, I immediately knew she was an extraordinary woman!’

  ‘Extremely extraordinary,’ said Ida Emean aep Sivney who had so far been silent. ‘Because of her extraordinary legacy because of her blood. Hen Ichaer, Elder Blood. The genetic material of extraordinary abilities for its wielder. Predestined for the great role to be met. Which must be met.’

  ‘Why must you tell us elven legends, myths and prophecies?’ Sabrina Glevissig said with a sneer. ‘The whole thing smelt like fairy tales and fantasy from the very beginning! No I have no doubt. Ladies, I suggest, as usually, that we address something serious, rational and real.’

  ‘I bow my head before the sober rationality, which is a source of great strength and advantage of your race.’ Ida Emean smiled slightly. ‘However, here, among those capable of making use of the power, which is not always subjected to rational analysis and explanation, it seems somewhat inappropriate to disregard elven prophecies. Our race is not so rational and draws its strength from other sources. And yet we have existed for tens of thousands of years.’

  ‘The genetic material called Elder Blood, of which we speak, turned out to be less resistant.’ Síle de Tansarville noted. ‘Even the elven legends and prophecies, which I do not underestimate, consider the Elder Blood to be total destroyed, extinct. Is that not so, Lady Ida? There is no longer Elder Blood in this world. The last, was in the veins of Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. We all know the legend of Lara Dorren and Cregennan of Lod.’

  ‘Not all of us’ Assire car Anahid said, speaking for the first time. ‘I studied your mythology and I do not know this legend.’

  ‘It is not a legend,’ said Philippa Eilhart. ‘It is a true story. Also among us is someone who knows not only the story of Lara and Cregennan, but also its consequences and these would also be very interesting for us all. We ask you to speak, Francesca.’

  ‘From what you say,’ the Queen of the Elves said smiling, ‘you know the story about as well as I.’

  ‘I do not deny it. But I beg you to tell us.’

  ‘To prove my sincerity and loyalty to the Lodge,’ Enid an Gleanna nodded. ‘I will. I ask you ladies to take a comfortable position, because this story will not be short.’

  ‘The story of Lara and Cregennan is a true story but so overgrown with fabulous ornaments it is hardly recognizable. There are huge differences between the human and elven versions of the legend, in both, resonate chauvinism and racial hatred. Therefore, I will cast off the ornaments and confine myself o the dry facts. And yes, Cregennan of Lod was a sorcerer. Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal was an elven sorceress, Aen Saevherne, one of the Knowing mysterious even to us elves, they carried Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood. The friendship and then the loving bond between them was first greeted with joy by both races, however, soon enemy opponents spoke against the connection of human and elven magic. Among the elves and among the humans were those who considered it treason. There were also problems, obscure now, about person feuds, jealousy and envy. In short: as a result of the intrigue, Cregennan was killed. Lara Dorren, hunted and prosecuted, died of exhaustion in the wilderness, while birthing a daughter. The child was saved miraculously. Then sheltered by Cerro, Queen of Redania...’

  ‘Terrified by the curse Lara gave her, because she refused to help and left her in the cold to freeze,’ Keira Metz burst into the narrative. ‘If she didn’t take the child, a terrible disaster would befall her and her family...’

  ‘These are the fabulous ornament, of which Francesca gave up.’ Philippa interrupted. ‘Keep to the facts.’

  ‘The gift of prophecy to the Knowing from the Elder Blood is fact.’ Ida Emean said, looking at Philippa. ‘And the repetition in all versions of the legend, suggests the theme of prophecy provides food
for thought.’

  ‘In the past they did,’ said Francesca. ‘The rumors of Lara’s curse were not silenced and were even remembered seventeen years later, when the girl who Cerro had sheltered, called Riannon, grew into a girl whose beauty overshadowed even the legendary beauty of her mother. The adopted Riannon bore the official title of Redania’s princess and many ruling families were interested in her. When among the many competitors Riannon finally choose Goidemar, the young king of Temeria, the marriage was almost destroyed by gossip about a curse. However, the rumors did not reach their true strength until three years after the wedding of Goidemar and Riannon. During the rebellion of Falka.’

  Fringilla who had never heard of either Falka nor of her rebellion, raised her eyebrows. Francesca noticed it.

  ‘For the kingdom of the North,’ she explained, ‘it was a tragic and bloody event, still vivid in memory, although it took place more than a hundred years ago. In Nilfgaard, which at that time the North had almost no contact, the matter was probably not known, so let me briefly recall some of the facts. Falka was the daughter of Vridank king of Redania. His first marriage fell apart, when his eye caught the beautiful Cerro, the same who later took in Lara’s baby. There are preserved documents that describe the lengthy and intricate grounds for divorce, but it also contains a telling portrait of Vridank’s first wife, a noble of Kovir undoubtedly a half-elf, but with a strong dominance of human characteristics. Her hair was wild, her mouth like a lizards and her eyes were crazy and fanatic. In short: Ugly, her sent her back to Kovir with a daughter, Falka. And soon forgot about both of them.’

  ‘Falka,’ Enid an Gleanna said after a while, ‘reminded him after twenty-five years, stirring up a rebellion and murdering with her own hands, her father, Cerro and her two half-brothers. The armed rebellion broke out at the beginning against Kovir, Temeria and the nobility, as a firstborn daughters fight for her heritage. But it soon evolved into a peasant war of enormous scope. Both parties participated in gruesome atrocities. Falka passed into legend as a bloodthirsty demon, although it is likely that she simply was unable to control the situation and still new slogans where printed onto the insurgents banners. Death to kings, death to wizards, death to priests, nobles, the rich and lords, soon death to everything that is alive, because there was no way to contain the rebels drunk with blood. The rebellion began to spread to other countries...’