The silence that fell was broken by Sheala de Tancarville.
‘An ambitious project indeed,’ she said with a hint of derision in her voice. ‘Truly worthy of us all, here seated. It absolutely justifies establishing a lodge of this kind. After all, less lofty tasks, even ones that are tottering on the brink of reality and feasibility, would be an affront to us. That would be like using an astrolabe to hammer in nails. No, no, it is best to set ourselves an utterly impossible task from the start.’
‘Why call it impossible?’
‘Have mercy, Philippa.’ Sabrina Glevissig sighed. ‘No king would ever wed a sorcereress. No society would accept a sorceress on the throne. An ancient custom stands in the way. A foolish one, perhaps, but it is there nevertheless.’
‘There also exist,’ Margarita Laux-Antille added, ‘obstacles of what I would call a technical nature. The sorceress who joined the House of Kovir would have to comply with a large number of conditions, both from our point of view and that of the House of Kovir. Those conditions are mutually exclusive, they contradict each other in obvious ways. Don’t you see that, Philippa? For us this person ought to be schooled in magic, utterly dedicated to magic, comprehending her role and capable of playing it deftly, imperceptibly and without arousing suspicion. Without direction or prompt, without any grey eminences standing in the shadows, against whom rebels always first direct their anger in a revolution. And Kovir itself, without any apparent pressure from us, must also choose her as the wife of the heir to the throne.’
‘That is obvious.’
‘So who do you think Kovir would select, given a free choice? A girl from a royal family, whose royal blood flows back many generations. A very young woman, suitable for a young prince. A girl who is fertile, because this is about a dynasty. Such prerequisites rule you out, Philippa. Rule me out, rule out Keira and Triss even, the youngest among us. They also rule out all the novices at my school, who are anyhow of little interest to us; they are but buds, the colour of whose petals are still unknown. It’s unthinkable that any of them could occupy the twelfth, empty seat at this table. In other words, were Kovir to be afflicted with insanity and willing to marry their prince to a sorceress, we couldn’t find a suitable woman. Who, then, is to be this Queen of the North?’
‘A girl from a royal family,’ Philippa calmly replied, ‘in whose veins flows royal blood, the blood of several great dynasties. Very young and capable of producing offspring. A girl with exceptional magical and prophetic abilities, a carrier of the Elder Blood as the prophecies have heralded. A girl who will play her role with great aplomb without direction, prompt, sycophants or grey eminences, because that is what her destiny demands. A girl, whose true abilities are and will be known only to us: Cirilla, daughter of Princess Pavetta of Cintra, the granddaughter of the Queen Calanthe called the Lioness of Cintra. The Elder Blood, the Icy Flame of the North, the Destroyer and Restorer, whose coming was prophesied centuries ago. Ciri of Cintra, the Queen of the North. And her blood, from which will be born the Queen of the World.’
At the sight of the Rats bursting out of the ambush, two of the horsemen escorting the carriage immediately turned tail and sped away. But they didn’t stand a chance. Giselher, helped by Reef and Iskra, cut off their escape and after a short fight hacked them to pieces. Kayleigh, Asse and Mistle fell on the other two, who were prepared to defend the carriage, and the four spotted horses harnessed to it, desperately. Ciri felt disappointment and overwhelming anger. They hadn’t left anyone for her. It looked as though she would have no one to kill.
But there was still one horseman, riding in front of the carriage as an outrider, lightly armed, on a swift horse. He could have escaped, but hadn’t. He turned back, swung his sword and dashed straight at Ciri.
She let him approach, even somewhat slowing her horse. When he struck, rising up in the stirrups, she leant far out from the saddle, skilfully ducking under his blade, then sat back up, pushing off hard against the stirrups. The horseman was quick and agile and managed to strike again. This time she parried obliquely, and when the sword slid away she struck the horseman in the hand from below with a short lunge, then swung her sword in a feint towards his face. He involuntarily covered his head with his left hand and she deftly turned the sword around in her hand and slashed him in the armpit, a cut she had practised for hours at Kaer Morhen. The Nilfgaardian slid from his saddle, fell to the ground, lifted himself up onto his knees, and howled like an animal, desperately trying to staunch the blood gushing from his severed arteries. Ciri watched him for a moment, as usual fascinated by the sight of a man fiercely fighting death with all his strength. She waited for him to bleed out. Then she rode off without looking back.
The ambush was over. The escort had been dispatched. Asse and Reef stopped the carriage, seizing the reins of the lead pair. The postilion, a young boy in colourful livery, having been pushed from the right lead horse, knelt on the ground, crying and begging for mercy. The coachman threw down the reins and also begged for his life, his hands placed together as though in prayer. Giselher, Iskra and Mistle cantered over to the carriage, and Kayleigh jumped off and jerked the door open. Ciri rode up and dismounted, still holding her blood-covered sword.
In the carriage sat a fat matron in an old-fashioned gown and bonnet, clutching a young and terribly pale girl in a black dress fastened up to the neck with a guipure lace collar. Ciri noticed she had a brooch pinned to her dress. A very pretty brooch.
‘Oh, spotted horses!’ Iskra called, looking at the rig. ‘What beauties! We’ll get a few florins for this four!’
‘And the coachman and postilion,’ Kayleigh said, grinning at the woman and the girl, ‘will pull the carriage to town, once we’ve harnessed them up. And when we come to a hill, these two fine ladies will help!’
‘Highwaymen, sirs!’ the matron in the old-fashioned gown whimpered, clearly more horrified by Kayleigh’s hideous smile than the bloody steel in Ciri’s hand. ‘I appeal to your honour! You surely will not outrage this young maiden.’
‘Hey, Mistle,’ Kayleigh called, smiling derisively, ‘your honour’s being appealed to!’
‘Shut your gob.’ Giselher grimaced, still mounted. ‘Your jokes don’t make anyone laugh. And you, woman, calm down. We’re the Rats. We don’t fight women and we don’t harm them. Reef, Iskra. Unharness the ponies! Mistle, catch our mounts; we’re leaving!’
‘We Rats don’t fight with women.’ Kayleigh grinned once more, staring at the ashen face of the girl in the black dress. ‘We just have some fun with them occasionally, if they have a yen. Well, do you, young lady? You haven’t got an itch between your legs, have you? Please don’t be shy. Just nod your little head.’
‘Show some respect!’ the lady in the old-fashioned gown screamed, her voice faltering. ‘How dare you talk like that to the Much Honoured Baron’s daughter, brigand!’
Kayleigh roared with laughter, then bowed extravagantly.
‘I beg for forgiveness. I didn’t wish to offend. What, mayn’t I even ask?’
‘Kayleigh!’ Iskra called. ‘Come here and stop dallying! Help us unharness these horses! Falka! Move it!’
Ciri couldn’t tear her eyes away from the coat of arms on the carriage doors: a silver unicorn on a black field. A unicorn, she thought. I once saw a unicorn like that . . . When? In another life? Or perhaps it was only a dream.
‘Falka! What’s the matter?’
I am Falka. But I wasn’t always. Not always.
She gathered herself and pursed her lips. I was unkind to Mistle, she thought. I upset her. I have to apologise somehow.
She placed a foot on the carriage steps, staring at the brooch on the pale girl’s dress.
‘Hand it over,’ she said bluntly.
‘How dare you?’ the matron choked. ‘Do you know who you are speaking to? She is the noble-born daughter of the Baron of Casadei!’
Ciri looked around, making sure no one was listening.
‘A Baron’s daughter?’ she h
issed. ‘A petty title. And even if the snot were a countess, she ought to curtsy before me, arse close to the ground and head low. Give me the brooch! What are you waiting for? Should I tear it off along with the bodice?’
The silence which fell at the table after Philippa’s declaration was quickly replaced by an uproar. The sorceresses vied with each other to voice their astonishment and disbelief, demanding explanations. Some of them undoubtedly knew a great deal about the prophesied Queen of the North – Cirilla or Ciri – while for others the name was less familiar. Fringilla Vigo didn’t know anything, but she had her suspicions and was lost in conjecture, mainly centred on a certain lock of hair. However, when she asked Assire in hushed tones, the sorceress said nothing and instructed her to remain silent too. Meanwhile, Philippa Eilhart took the floor once again.
‘Most of us saw Ciri on Thanedd, where she delivered prophecy in a trance and caused a great deal of confusion. Some of us are close – or even very close – to her. I have you in mind, in particular, Yennefer. It’s your turn to speak.’
When Yennefer was telling the assembly about Ciri, Triss Merigold looked attentively at her. Yennefer spoke calmly and without emotion, but Triss knew her too well and had known her for too long to be fooled. She had seen her in many situations, including stressful ones, which had exhausted her and led her to the verge of sickness, and occasionally into it. Now, without doubt, Yennefer found herself in such a situation again. She looked distressed, weary and ill.
The sorceress talked, and Triss, who knew both the story and the person it concerned, discreetly observed the audience. Particularly the two sorceresses from Nilfgaard. The utterly transformed Assire var Anahid, now dressed up but still feeling uncertain in her make-up and fashionable dress. And Fringilla Vigo, the younger, friendly, naturally graceful and modestly elegant one, with green eyes and hair as black as Yennefer’s but less luxuriant, cut shorter and brushed down smoothly.
Neither of the Nilfgaardians gave the impression of being lost among the complexities of Ciri’s story, even though Yennefer’s account was lengthy and tangled, beginning with the infamous love affair between Pavetta of Cintra and the young man magically transformed into Urcheon. She recounted Geralt’s role and the Law of Surprise, and the destiny linking the Witcher and Ciri. Yennefer talked about Ciri and Geralt meeting in Brokilon, about the war, about her being lost and found, and about Kaer Morhen. About Rience and the Nilfgaardian agents hunting the girl. About her education in the Temple of Melitele, and about Ciri’s mysterious abilities.
They’re listening with such inscrutable expressions, Triss thought, looking at Assire and Fringilla. Like sphinxes. But they are clearly hiding something. I wonder what. Their astonishment? Since they couldn’t have known who Emhyr had brought to Nilfgaard. Or is it that they’ve known all this for a long time, perhaps even better than we do? Yennefer will soon reach Ciri’s arrival on Thanedd, and the prophecy she gave while in a trance, which sowed so much confusion. About the bloody fighting in Garstang, which left Geralt severely beaten and Ciri abducted.
Then the dissembling will be over, Triss thought, and the masks will fall. Everyone knows that Nilfgaard was behind the events on Thanedd. And when all eyes turn towards you, Nilfgaardians, you won’t have a choice, you’ll have to talk. And then certain matters will be explained and perhaps I shall find out more. Like how Yennefer managed to vanish from Thanedd, and why she suddenly appeared here, in Montecalvo, with Francesca. Who is Ida Emean, she-elf, Aen Saevherne from the Blue Mountains, and what role is she playing here? Why do I have the impression Philippa Eilhart reveals less than she knows, even though she declares her devotion and loyalty to magic, and not to Dijkstra . . . with whom she remains in unceasing contact?
And perhaps I’ll finally learn who Ciri really is. Ciri; the Queen of the North to them, but the flaxen-haired witcher-girl of Kaer Morhen to me. A girl I still think of as a younger sister.
Fringilla Vigo had heard something about witchers: individuals who earned their keep by killing monsters and beasts. She listened attentively to Yennefer’s story and to the sound of her voice, and observed her face. She didn’t let herself be deceived. The strong emotional relationship between Yennefer and Ciri – whom everyone found so fascinating – was clear as day. Interestingly enough, the relationship between the sorceress and the Witcher she had mentioned was equally clear and equally strong. Fringilla began to reflect on this, but was interrupted by raised voices.
She had already worked out that some of the assembled company had been in opposing camps during the rebellion on Thanedd, so was not at all surprised by the antipathy expressed in the form of biting comments, directed at Yennefer as she spoke. Just as an argument seemed inevitable, Philippa Eilhart cut it short by unceremoniously slapping the table, which made the cups jingle.
‘Enough!’ she shouted. ‘Be quiet, Sabrina! Don’t let her goad you, Francesca! That’s quite enough about Thanedd and Garstang. It’s history!’
History, Fringilla thought, with an astonishing sense of hurt. But history, which they – even though they belonged to different camps – had a hand in. They made their mark. They knew what they were doing and why. And we, imperial sorceresses, don’t know anything. We really are like errand girls, who know what they are being sent to do, but don’t know why. It’s good that this lodge is coming into being, she deemed. The devil only knows how it will end, but at least it’s beginning, here and now.
‘Yennefer, continue,’ Philippa summoned.
‘I don’t have anything else to say,’ the black-haired sorceress answered through pursed lips. ‘I repeat: Tissaia de Vries ordered me to bring Ciri to Garstang.’
‘It’s easy to blame the dead,’ Sabrina Glevissig snarled, but Philippa quietened her with a sharp gesture.
‘I didn’t want to meddle in Aretuza’s business,’ Yennefer said, pale and clearly disturbed. ‘I wanted to take Ciri and escape Thanedd. But Tissaia convinced me that the girl’s appearance in Garstang would be a shock to many and that her prophecy would pour oil on troubled waters. I’m not blaming her, however, because I agreed with her then. Both of us made a mistake. Mine was greater, though. Had I left Ciri in Rita’s care . . .’
‘What’s done cannot be undone,’ Philippa interrupted. ‘Anyone can make a mistake. Even Tissaia de Vries. When did Tissaia see Ciri for the first time?’
‘Three days before the conclave began,’ Margarita Laux-Antille replied. ‘In Gors Velen. I also made her acquaintance then. And I knew she was a remarkable individual the moment I saw her!’
‘Extremely remarkable,’ said the previously silent Ida Emean aep Sivney. ‘For the legacy of remarkable blood is concentrated in her. Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood. Genetic material determining the carrier’s uncommon abilities. Determining the great role she will play. That she must play.’
‘Because that is what elven legends, myths and prophecies demand?’ Sabrina Glevissig asked with a sneer. ‘Since the very beginning, this whole matter has smacked of fairy-tales and fantasies! Now I have no doubts. My dear ladies, I suggest we discuss something important, rational and real for a change.’
‘I bow before sober rationality; the power and source of your race’s great superiority,’ Ida Emean said, smiling faintly. ‘Nonetheless, here, in the company of individuals capable of using a power which does not always lend itself to rational analysis or explanations, it seems somewhat improper to disregard the elves’ prophecies. Neither our race nor our power draws its strength from rationality. In spite of that it has endured for tens of thousands of years.’
‘The genetic material called the Elder Blood, of which we are talking, turned out to be a little less hardy, however,’ Sheala de Tancarville observed. ‘Even elven legends and prophecies, which I in no way disregard, consider the Elder Blood to be utterly atrophied. Extinct. Am I right, Mistress Ida? There is no more Elder Blood in the world. The last person in whose veins it flowed was Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, and we all know the legend of Lara Dorren an
d Cregennan of Lod.’
‘Not all of us,’ Assire var Anahid said, speaking for the first time. ‘I only studied your mythology cursorily and have never come across that legend.’
‘It is not a legend,’ Philippa Eilhart said, ‘but a true story. And there is one among us who not only knows the tale of Lara and Cregennan very well, but also what came after, which will certainly interest you all. Would you take up the story, Francesca?’
‘From what you say’ – the queen of the elves smiled – ‘it would seem you know this tale no less thoroughly than I do.’
‘Quite possibly. But I would nonetheless ask you to tell it.’
‘In order to test my honesty and loyalty to the lodge,’ Enid an Gleanna said, nodding. ‘Very well. I would ask you all to make yourselves comfortable, for the story will not be a short one.’
‘The story of Lara and Cregennan is a true story, although today it is so overgrown with fairy-tale ornamentation it is difficult to recognise. There is also enormous variance between the legend’s human and elven versions; chauvinism and racial hatred can be heard in both of them, though. Thus I shall refrain from embellishments and limit myself to dry facts. Cregennan of Lod was a sorcerer. Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal was an elven sorceress, an Aen Saevherne, a Sage, one of the carriers of the Elder Blood, which is even mysterious to we elves. The friendship – and later romance – between the two of them was at first joyfully acknowledged by both races, but there soon appeared opponents to their union. Sworn enemies to the idea of melding human and elven magic, who regarded it as betrayal. With the wisdom of hindsight, there were also feuds of a personal nature at work: jealousy and envy. Put simply: Cregennan was assassinated and Lara Dorren, hounded and hunted, died of exhaustion in a wilderness after giving birth to a daughter. The baby was saved by a miracle. She was taken in by Cerro, the Queen of Redania—’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 97
