The green eyes of the little witcher-girl betrayed no signs of mutation, and the touch of her little hand did not produce the slight, pleasant tingling sensation so characteristic of witchers. Although she ran the Killer path with a sword slung across her back, the ashen-haired girl had not been subjected to the Trial of Grasses or to Changes. Of that, Triss was certain.
‘Show me your knee, little one.’
‘I’m not little.’
‘Sorry. But surely you have a name?’
‘I do. I’m . . . Ciri.’
‘It’s a pleasure. A bit closer if you please, Ciri.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘I want to see what “nothing” looks like. Ah, that’s what I thought. “Nothing” looks remarkably like torn trousers and skin grazed down to raw flesh. Stand still and don’t be scared.’
‘I’m not scared . . . Awww!’
The magician laughed and rubbed her palm, itching from casting the spell, against her hip. The girl bent over and gazed at her knee.
‘Oooh,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t hurt any more! And there’s no hole . . . Was that magic?’
‘You’ve guessed it.’
‘Are you a witch?’
‘Guessed again. Although I prefer to be called an enchantress. To avoid getting it wrong you can call me by my name, Triss. Just Triss. Come on, Ciri. My horse is waiting at the bottom. We’ll go to Kaer Morhen together.’
‘I ought to run.’ Ciri shook her head. ‘It’s not good to stop running because you get milk in your muscles. Geralt says—’
‘Geralt is at the keep?’
Ciri frowned, pinched her lips together and shot a glance at the enchantress from beneath her ashen fringe. Triss chuckled again.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I won’t ask. A secret’s a secret, and you’re right not to disclose it to someone you hardly know. Come on. When we get there we’ll see who’s at the castle and who isn’t. And don’t worry about your muscles – I know what to do about lactic acid. Ah, here’s my mount. I’ll help you . . .’
She stretched out her hand, but Ciri didn’t need any help. She jumped agilely into the saddle, lightly, almost without taking off. The gelding started, surprised, and stamped, but the girl quickly took up the reins and reassured it.
‘You know how to handle a horse, I see.’
‘I can handle anything.’
‘Move up towards the pommel.’ Triss slipped her foot into the stirrup and caught hold of the mane. ‘Make a bit of room for me. And don’t poke my eye out with that sword.’
The gelding, spurred on by her heels, moved off along the stream bed at a walking pace. They rode across another gully and climbed the rounded mountainside. From there they could see the ruins of Kaer Morhen huddled against the stone precipices – the partially demolished trapezium of the defensive wall, the remains of the barbican and gate, the thick, blunt column of the donjon.
The gelding snorted and jerked its head, crossing what remained of the bridge over the moat. Triss tugged at the reins. The decaying skulls and skeletons strewn across the river bed made no impression on her. She had seen them before.
‘I don’t like this,’ the girl suddenly remarked. ‘It’s not as it should be. The dead should to be buried in the ground. Under a barrow. Shouldn’t they?’
‘They should,’ the magician agreed calmly. ‘I think so, too. But the witchers treat this graveyard as a . . . reminder.’
‘Reminder of what?’
‘Kaer Morhen,’ Triss said as she guided the horse towards the shattered arcades, ‘was assaulted. There was a bloody battle here in which almost all the witchers died. Only those who weren’t in the keep at the time survived.’
‘Who attacked them? And why?’
‘I don’t know,’ she lied. ‘It was a terribly long time ago, Ciri. Ask the witchers about it.’
‘I have,’ grunted the girl. ‘But they didn’t want to tell me.’
I can understand that, thought the magician. A child trained to be a witcher, a girl, at that, who has not undergone the mutations, should not be told such things. A child like that should not hear about the massacre. A child like that should not be terrified by the prospect that they too may one day hear words describing it like those which were screamed by the fanatics who marched on Kaer Morhen long ago. Mutant. Monster. Freak. Damned by the gods, a creature contrary to nature. No, I do not blame the witchers for not telling you about it, little Ciri. And I shan’t tell you either. I have even more reason to be silent. Because I am a wizard, and without the aid of wizards those fanatics would never have conquered the castle. And that hideous lampoon, that widely distributed Monstrum which stirred the fanatics up and drove them to such wickedness was also, apparently, some wizard’s anonymous work. But I, little Ciri, do not recognise collective responsibility, I do not feel the need to expiate the events which took place half a century before my birth. And the skeletons which are meant to serve as an eternal reminder will ultimately rot away completely, disintegrate into dust and be forgotten, will disappear with the wind which constantly whips the mountainside . . .
‘They don’t want to lie like that,’ said Ciri suddenly. ‘They don’t want to be a symbol, a bad conscience or a warning. But neither do they want their dust to be swept away by the wind.’
Triss raised her head, hearing a change in the girl’s voice. Immediately she sensed a magical aura, a pulsating and a rush of blood in her temples. She grew tense but did not utter a word, afraid of breaking into or disrupting what was happening.
‘An ordinary barrow.’ Ciri’s voice was becoming more and more unnatural, metallic, cold and menacing. ‘A mound of earth which will be overgrown with nettles. Death has cold blue eyes, and the height of the obelisk does not matter, nor does the writing engraved on it matter. Who can know that better than you, Triss Merigold, the Fourteenth One of the Hill?’
The enchantress froze. She saw the girl’s hands clench the horse’s mane.
‘You died on the Hill, Triss Merigold.’ The strange, evil voice spoke again. ‘Why have you come here? Go back, go back at once and take this child, the Child of Elder Blood, with you. Return her to those to whom she belongs. Do this, Fourteenth One. Because if you do not you will die once more. The day will come when the Hill will claim you. The mass grave, and the obelisk on which your name is engraved, will claim you.’
The gelding neighed loudly, tossing its head. Ciri jerked suddenly, shuddered.
‘What happened?’ asked Triss, trying to control her voice.
Ciri coughed, passed both hands through her hair and rubbed her face.
‘Nn . . . nothing . . .’ she muttered hesitantly. ‘I’m tired, that’s why . . . That’s why I fell asleep. I ought to run . . .’
The magical aura disappeared. Triss experienced a sudden cold wave sweep through her entire body. She tried to convince herself it was the effect of the defensive spell dying away, but she knew that wasn’t true. She glanced up at the stone blocks of the castle, the black, empty eye-sockets of its ruined loop-holes gaping at her. A shudder ran through her.
The horse’s shoes rang against the slabs in the courtyard. The magician quickly leaped from the saddle and held out her hand to Ciri. Taking advantage of the touch of their hands she carefully emitted a magical impulse. And was astounded. Because she didn’t feel anything. No reaction, no reply. And no resistance. In the girl who had, just a moment ago, manifested an exceptionally strong aura there was not a trace of magic. She was now an ordinary, badly dressed child whose hair had been incompetently cut.
But a moment ago, this child had been no ordinary child.
Triss did not have time to ponder the strange event. The grate of an iron-clad door reached her, coming from the dark void of the corridor which gaped behind the battered portal. She slipped the fur cape from her shoulders, removed her fox-fur hat and, with a swift movement of the head, tousled her hair – long, full locks the colour of fresh chestnuts, with a sheen of gold, her pride and identify
ing characteristic.
Ciri sighed with admiration. Triss smiled, pleased by the effect she’d had. Beautiful, long, loose hair was a rarity, an indication of a woman’s position, her status, the sign of a free woman, a woman who belonged to herself. The sign of an unusual woman – because ‘normal’ maidens wore their hair in plaits, ‘normal’ married women hid theirs beneath a caul or a coif. Women of high birth, including queens, curled their hair and styled it. Warriors cut it short. Only druids and magicians – and whores – wore their hair naturally so as to emphasise their independence and freedom.
The witchers appeared unexpectedly and silently, as usual, and, also as usual, from nowhere. They stood before her, tall, slim, their arms crossed, the weight of their bodies on their left legs – a position from which, she knew, they could attack in a split second. Ciri stood next to them, in an identical position. In her ludicrous clothes, she looked very funny.
‘Welcome to Kaer Morhern, Triss.’
‘Greetings, Geralt.’
He had changed. He gave the impression of having aged. Triss knew that, biologically, this was impossible – witchers aged, certainly, but too slowly for an ordinary mortal, or a magician as young as her, to notice the changes. But one glance was enough for her to realise that although mutation could hold back the physical process of ageing, it did not alter the mental. Geralt’s face, slashed by wrinkles, was the best evidence of this. With a sense of deep sorrow Triss tore her gaze away from the white-haired witcher’s eyes. Eyes which had evidently seen too much. What’s more, she saw nothing of what she had expected in those eyes.
‘Welcome,’ he repeated. ‘We are glad you’ve come.’
Eskel stood next to Geralt, resembling the Wolf like a brother apart from the colour of his hair and the long scar which disfigured his cheek. And the youngest of the Kaer Morhen witchers, Lambert, was there with his usual ugly, mocking expression. Vesemir was not there.
‘Welcome and come in,’ said Eskel. ‘It is as cold and blustery as if someone has hung themselves. Ciri, where are you off to? The invitation does not apply to you. The sun is still high, even if it is obscured. You can still train.’
‘Hey.’ The Enchantress tossed her hair. ‘Politeness comes cheap in Witchers’ Keep now, I see. Ciri was the first to greet me, and brought me to the castle. She ought to keep me company—’
‘She is undergoing training here, Merigold.’ Lambert grimaced in a parody of a smile. He always called her that: ‘Merigold’, without giving her a title or a name. Triss hated it. ‘She is a student, not a major domo. Welcoming guests, even such pleasant ones as yourself, is not one of her duties. We’re off, Ciri.’
Triss gave a little shrug, pretending not to see Geralt and Eskel’s embarrassed expressions. She did not say anything, not wanting to embarrass them further. And, above all, she did not want them to see how very intrigued and fascinated she was by the girl.
‘I’ll take your horse,’ offered Geralt, reaching for the reins. Triss surreptitiously shifted her hand and their palms joined. So did their eyes.
‘I’ll come with you,’ she said naturally. ‘There are a few little things in the saddle-bags which I’ll need.’
‘You gave me a very disagreeable experience not so long ago,’ he muttered as soon as they had entered the stable. ‘I studied your impressive tombstone with my own eyes. The obelisk in memory of your heroic death at the battle of Sodden. The news that it was a mistake only reached me recently. I can’t understand how anyone could mistake anyone else for you, Triss.’
‘It’s a long story,’ she answered. ‘I’ll tell you some time. And please forgive me for the disagreeable moment.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve not had many reasons to be happy of late and the feelings I experienced on hearing that you lived cannot compare to any other. Except perhaps what I feel now when I look at you.’
Triss felt something explode inside her. Her fear of meeting the white-haired witcher, which had accompanied her throughout her journey, had struggled within her with her hope of having such a meeting. Followed by the sight of that tired, jaded face, those sick eyes which saw everything, cold and calculating, which were unnaturally calm but yet so infused with emotion . . .
She threw her arms around his neck, instantly, without thinking. She caught hold of his hand, abruptly placed it on the nape of her neck, under her hair. A tingling ran down her back, penetrated her with such rapture she almost cried out. In order to muffle and restrain the cry her lips found his lips and stuck to them. She trembled, pressing hard against him, her excitement building and increasing, forgetting herself more and more.
Geralt did not forget himself.
‘Triss . . . Please.’
‘Oh, Geralt . . . So much . . .’
‘Triss.’ He moved her away delicately. ‘We’re not alone . . . They’re coming.’
She glanced at the entrance and saw the shadows of the approaching witchers only after some time, heard their steps even later. Oh well, her hearing, which she considered very sensitive, could not compete with that of a witcher.
‘Triss, my child!’
‘Vesemir !’
Vesemir was really very old. Who knows, he could be even older than Kaer Morhen. But he walked towards her with a brisk, energetic and sprightly step; his grip was vigorous and his hands strong.
‘I am happy to see you again, Grandfather.’
‘Give me a kiss. No, not on the hand, little sorceress. You can kiss my hand when I’m resting on my bier. Which will, no doubt, be soon. Oh, Triss, it is a good thing you have come . . . Who can cure me if not you?’
‘Cure, you? Of what? Of behaving like a child, surely! Take your hand from my backside, old man, or I’ll set fire to that grey beard of yours!’
‘Forgive me. I keep forgetting you are grown up, and I can no longer put you on my knee and pat you. As to my health . . . Oh, Triss, old age is no joke. My bones ache so I want to howl. Will you help an old man, child?’
‘I will.’ The enchantress freed herself from his bear-like embrace and cast her eye over the witcher accompanying Vesemir. He was young, apparently the same age as Lambert, and wore a short, black beard which did not hide the severe disfigurement left behind by smallpox. This was unusual; witchers were generally highly immune to infectious diseases.
‘Triss Merigold, Coën.’ Geralt introduced them to each other. ‘This is Coën’s first winter with us. He comes from the north, from Poviss.’
The young witcher bowed. He had unusually pale, yellow-green irises and the whites of his eyes, riddled with red threads, indicated difficult and troublesome processes during his mutation.
‘Let us go, child,’ uttered Vesemir, taking her by the arm. ‘A stable is no place to welcome a guest, but I couldn’t wait to see you.’
In the courtyard, in a recess in the wall sheltered from the wind, Ciri was training under Lambert’s instructions. Deftly balancing on a beam hanging on chains, she was attacking – with her sword – a leather sack bound with straps to make it resemble a human torso. Triss stopped to watch.
‘Wrong!’ yelled Lambert. ‘You’re getting too close! Don’t hack blindly at it! I told you, the very tip of the sword, at the carotid artery! Where does a humanoid have its carotid artery? On top of its head? What’s happening? Concentrate, Princess!’
Ha, thought Triss. So it is truth, not a legend. She is the one. I guessed correctly.
She decided to attack without delay, not allowing the witchers to try any ruses.
‘The famous Child Surprise?’ she said indicating Ciri. ‘I see you have applied yourselves to fulfilling the demands of fate and destiny? But it seems you have muddled the stories, boys. In the fairy-tales I was told, shepherdesses and orphans become princesses. But here, I see, a princess is becoming a witcher. Does that not appear somewhat daring to you?’
Vesemir glanced at Geralt. The white-haired witcher remained silent, his face perfectly still; he did not react with even the slightest quiv
er of his eyelids to Vesemir’s unspoken request for support.
‘It’s not what you think.’ The old man cleared his throat. ‘Geralt brought her here last autumn. She has no one apart from—Triss, how can one not believe in destiny when—’
‘What has destiny to do with waving a sword around?’
‘We are teaching her to fence,’ Geralt said quietly, turning towards her and looking her straight in the eyes. ‘What else are we to teach her? We know nothing else. Destiny or no, Kaer Morhen is now her home. At least for a while. Training and swordsmanship amuse her, keep her healthy and fit. They allow her to forget the tragedy she has lived through. This is her home now, Triss. She has no other.’
‘Masses of Cintrians,’ the enchantress said, holding his gaze, ‘fled to Verden after the defeat, to Brugge, Temeria and the Islands of Skellige. Amongst them are magnates, barons, knights. Friends, relations . . . as well as this girl’s subjects.’
‘Friends and relations did not look for her after the war. They did not find her.’
‘Because she was not destined for them?’ She smiled at him, not very sincerely but very prettily. As prettily as she could. She did not want him to use that tone of voice.
The witcher shrugged. Triss, knowing him a little, immediately changed tactics and gave up the argument.
She looked at Ciri again. The girl, agilely stepping along the balance beam, executed a half-turn, cut lightly, and immediately leaped away. The dummy, struck, swayed on its rope.
‘Well, at last!’ shouted Lambert. ‘You’ve finally got it! Go back and do it again. I want to make sure it wasn’t a fluke!’
‘The sword,’ Triss turned to the witchers, ‘looks sharp. The beam looks slippery and unstable. And Lambert looks like an idiot, demoralising the girl with all his shouting. Aren’t you afraid of an unfortunate accident? Or maybe you’re relying on destiny to protect the child against it?’
‘Ciri practised for nearly six months without a sword,’ said Coën. ‘She knows how to move. And we are keeping an eye on her because—’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 6
