Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  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 rumors... 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, thought 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 Engelkind 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 honor 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. D
elicate 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. Realizing 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. Myrrha was killed by elves, Squirrels, during an attack on the hospital in Armeria... Katye...'

  'Tell me, child,' Nenneke gently urged.

  'Katye,' Eurneid cleared her throat, 'met a wounded Nilfgaardian in the hospital. After the conclusion of the peace, when the prisoners were 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, signaling 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 idealizing, 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.