When Bonhart could see once more, the tower was gone. There was only a snow-covered hillock, and a heap of stones dotted with icy plant stems.
Kneeling on the ice, dripping, surrounded by a puddle of water, the bounty hunter roared wildly, horribly. From his knees, he stretched his hands toward heaven and he cried, screamed, cursed, and reviled – men, gods, devils, and demons.
The echo of the cry rolled through the wooded slopes and ran across the frozen surface of Lake Tarn Mira.
* * *
The interior of the tower immediately reminded her of Kaer Morhen – an equally long black corridor behind the doorway, an equally endless abyss in alignment with the columns and statues. She could not understand how this chasm fit in the slender obelisk of the tower. But she knew that trying to analyze it made no sense – not in the case of a tower that sprung up out of nowhere, that suddenly appeared where nothing had been before. In such a tower, anything was possible, and you couldn't be surprised by anything.
She looked back. She did not believe that Bonhart had dared – or had been able – to follow her here. But she preferred to make sure of that.
The archway through which she was riding shone with a bright, unnatural light.
Kelpie's hooves clattered on the floor, which started to crack under the horseshoes. Bone. Skull, tibia, ribs, femur, pelvis. She rode through the middle of a giant ossuary. She was reminded again of Kaer Morhen. The dead should be buried in the ground… How long ago was that… At that time I actually believed such a thing… the majesty of death, respect for the dead… But death is just death. And a dead man is just a cold corpse. It does not matter where it lies, where his bones disintegrate.
She rode into the darkness, under arches, between columns and statues. The darkness began weigh on her like smoke. Intrusive whispers and soft sighs urged incantations in her ears. Huge doors suddenly flared up in front of her and opened. They opened one by one. Doors. An infinite number of heavy doors opened silently in front of her.
Kelpie's hooves rattled on the ground.
The geometry of the surrounding walls, arches, and columns was suddenly disturbed, so violently that Ciri thought it must not be real. It seemed to her that she was travelling through the interior of some impossible polyhedral body, a sort of giant octahedron.
The doors continued to open. But they no longer gave only a single direction. They opened up endless possibilities and directions.
Ciri began to see.
A black-haired woman who holds an ash-blonde girl by the hand. The girl is afraid, afraid of the dark, afraid of the her urgent whisper, horrified by the clatter of horseshoes she hears. The black-haired woman with the sparkling star of obsidian on her neck is afraid. But she cannot show it. She continues with the girl. It is her predestination.
Kelpie's hooves. The next door.
Iola the Second and Eurneid, in short coats, knapsacks on their backs, marching on a frozen, snow-covered road. The sky is deep blue.
The next door.
Iola First kneeling before the altar. Next to her is Mother Nenneke. They stare, their faces twisted in a grimace of horror. What do they see? Past or future? Truth or falsehood?
Above them both, Nenneke Iola – are hands. The outstretched hands of a blessing of a woman with golden eyes. The necklace of the woman is a diamond that shines like the morning star. A cat is on the woman's shoulder. A falcon is above her head.
The next door.
Triss Merigold adjusts her beautiful chestnut-brown hair that is tousled by wind gusts. But there is no escaping that wind, no protection from it.
Not here. Not on the top of the hill.
On the hillside below a long, endless line of shadows. Figures. They go slowly. Some turn to face her. Familiar faces. Vesemir. Eskel. Lambert. Coen. Yarpen Zigrin and Paulie Dahlberg. Fabio Sachs… Jarre… Tissaia de Vries.
Mistle…
Geralt?
The next door.
Yennefer, in chains, shackled to the wall of a dripping wet dungeon. Her hands are one large mass of clotted blood. Her black hair is matted and dirty… Her lips are cracked and swollen… But in her violet eyes, the will to struggle and resist is still not extinguished.
‘Mother! Hang in there! Hold on! I'll come to the rescue!’
The next door. Ciri turned her head away. With regret. And embarrassment.
Geralt. And a green-eyed woman with black short-cut hair. Both naked. Joined, rising together. Contributing to each other's pleasure.
Ciri gained control of her adrenaline compressed throat and promoted Kelpie. The hooves clattered. The darkness vibrates with whispers.
The next door.
Hail, Ciri.
‘Vysogota?’
I knew that you would succeed, my efficient lady. My brave swallow. Have you taken any harm?
‘I defeated them. On the ice. I had a surprise for them. The skates of your daughter…’
I was thinking about psychological harm…
‘I held back the revenge… Did not kill all that I desired to kill… I did not kill the Owl… Although he was the one who hurt and disfigured me. I controlled myself.’
I knew you would win, Zireael. And that you would enter the tower. I'd read about it. Because that's been described… It's all already been described… Do you know earns one his degree? One's ability to use sources.
‘How can it be that we can talk to each other… Vysogota… Are you…?’
Yes, Ciri. I am dead. Oh unimportant! More importantly, I learned what I sought… I know where those lost days went, what happened in the Korath Desert, how you disappeared from the eyes of your pursuers…
‘And how I came here, into this tower, yes?’
The elder blood that flows through your veins gives you power over time. And over space. Over dimensions and spheres. You are now the Mistress of the Worlds, Ciri. You are a powerful force. Do not allow worthless criminals to take and abuse for their own purposes.
‘I will not allow it.’
Farewell, Ciri. Farewell, Swallow.
‘Goodbye, old crow.’
The next door. Brightness, dazzling brightness. And the pervasive scent of flowers.
* * *
The mist covering the lake, light as down, was quickly blown away by the wind. The surface of the water was smooth as a mirror and white flowers shone on the green carpet of the shallow sea lilies.
The banks drowned in greenery and flowers.
It was warm.
It was spring.
Ciri was not surprised. How could she wonder at anything now? Because now, everything was possible. November, ice, snow, frozen ground, the pile of stones on the passing of bare stems hillock – there it was. But here, the willowy basalt tower with the serrated peaks reflected in the green, lily-strewn waters of the lake. This was May, because only in May did the wild rose and black cherry blossom.
Nearby, someone was playing on a reed pipe or a flute, a fun, jumping little tune.
Standing on the shore of the lake, with their front feet in the water, were two snow-white horses. Kelpie snorted and struck her hoof on the rocks. As the horses lifted their heads and the water dripped from their nostrils, and Ciri sighed loudly.
Because they were not horses, but unicorns.
Ciri was not surprised. She had sighed with admiration, not with astonishment.
The melody could be heard more clearly now, it came from behind the cherry bushes clustered with white flower. Kelpie went in that direction by herself, without any invitation. Ciri swallowed then followed. Both unicorns, motionless as statues, stared at her. They reflected on the smooth water surface.
Behind the cherry bushes, a light-haired elf with a triangular face and huge, almond-shaped eyes sat on a round stone. He was playing, his fingers danced over the holes of the flute. Although he noticed Ciri and Kelpie, although he looked at them, he did not stop playing.
The small, fragrant white flowers and the black cherries had an intense smell such as Cir
i had never experienced in her life. No wonder, she thought soberly: In the world where I've lived, the cherries just smell different.
In that world, everything is different.
The elf finished the tune with a long high trill, put down the flute, and stood up.
‘What took you so long?’ He asked, smiling. ‘What kept you?’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 05] Page 46
