‘At present, the border between us and the South – dominated by Nilfgaard – is demarcated, as you can see, by the Yaruga River. It constitutes an obstacle which is practically insurmountable. It hardly ever freezes over, and during the rainy season it can carry so much water that its bed is almost a mile wide. For a long stretch, here, it flows between precipitous, inaccessible banks, between the rocks of Mahakam . . .’
‘The land of dwarves and gnomes?’
‘Yes. And so the Yaruga can only be crossed here, in its lower reaches, in Sodden, and here, in its middle reaches, in the valley of Dol Angra . . .’
And it was exactly in Dol Angra, that inci— Incident?’
‘Wait. I’m just explaining to you that, at the moment, no army could cross the Yaruga River. Both accessible valleys, those along which armies have marched for centuries, are very heavily manned and defended, both by us and by Nilfgaard. Look at the map. Look how many strongholds there are. See, here is Verden, here is Brugge, here the Isles of Skellige . . .’
‘And this, what is this? This huge white mark?’
Jarre moved closer; she felt the warmth of his knee.
‘Brokilon Forest,’ he said, ‘is forbidden territory. The kingdom of forest dryads. Brokilon also defends our flank. The dryads won’t let anyone pass. The Nilfgaardians either . . .’
‘Hmm . . .’ Ciri leaned over the map. ‘Here is Aedirn . . . And the town of Vengerberg . . . Jarre! Stop that immediately!’
The boy abruptly pulled his lips away from her hair and went as red as a beetroot.
‘1 do not wish you to do that to me!’
‘Ciri, I ‘
‘I came to you with a serious matter, as a wizard to a scholar,’ she said icily and with dignity, in a tone of voice which exactly copied that of Yennefer. ‘So behave!’
The ‘scholar’ blushed an even deeper shade and had such a stupid expression on his face that the ‘wizard’ could barely keep herself from laughing. He leaned over the map once more.
‘All this geography of yours,’ she continued, ‘hasn’t led to anything yet. You’re telling me about the Yaruga River but the Nilfgaardians have, after all, already crossed to the other side once. What’s stopping them now?’
‘That time,’ hawked Jarre, wiping the sweat which had all of a sudden appeared on his brow, ‘they only had Brugge, Sodden and Temeria against them. Now, we’re united in an alliance. Like at the battle of Sodden. The Four Kingdoms. Temeria, Redania, Aedirn and Kaedwen . . .’
‘Kaedwen,’ said Ciri proudly. ‘Yes, I know what that alliance is based on. King Henselt of Kaedwen offers special, secret aid to King Demawend of Aedirn. That aid is transported in barrels. And when King Demawend suspects someone of being a traitor, he puts stones in the barrels. Sets a trap—’
She broke off, recalling that Geralt had forbidden her to mention the events in Kaedwen. Jarre stared at her suspiciously.
‘Is that so? And how can you know all that?’
‘I read about it in a book written by Marshal Pelican,’ she snorted. ‘And in other analogies. Tell me what happened in Dol Angra or whatever it’s called. But first, show me where it is.’
‘Here. Dol Angra is a wide valley, a route leading from the south to the kingdoms of Lyria and Rivia, to Aedirn, and further to Dol Blathanna and Kaedwen . . . And through Pontar Valley to us, to Temeria.’
And what happened there?’
‘There was fighting. Apparently. I don’t know much about it, but that’s what they’re saying at the castle.’
‘If there was fighting,’ frowned Ciri, ‘there’s a war already! So what are you talking about?’
‘It’s not the first time there’s been fighting,’ clarified Jarre, but the girl saw that he was less and less sure of himself. ‘Incidents at the border are very frequent. But they’re insignificant.’
And how come?’
‘The forces are balanced. Neither we nor the Nilfgaardians can do anything. And neither of the sides can give their opponent a casus belli—’
‘Give what?’
‘A reason for war. Understand? That’s why the armed incidents in Dol Angra are most certainly fortuitous matters, probably attacks by brigands or skirmishes with smugglers … In no way can they be the work of regular armies, neither ours nor those of Nilfgaard . . . Because that would be precisely a casus belli . . .’
‘Aha. Jarre, tell me—’
She broke off. She raised her head abruptly, quickly touched her temples with her fingers and frowned.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Lady Yennefer is calling me.’
‘You can hear her?’ The boy was intrigued. ‘At a distance? How . . .’
‘I’ve got to go,’ she repeated, getting to her feet and brushing the dust off her knees. ‘Listen, Jarre. I’m leaving with Lady Yennefer, on some very important matters. I don’t know when we’ll be back. I warn you they are secret matters which concern only wizards, so don’t ask any questions.’
Jarre also stood up. He adjusted his clothing but still did not know what to do with his hands. His eyes glazed over sickeningly.
‘Ciri . . .’
‘What?’
‘I . . . I . . .’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said impatiently, glaring at him with her huge, emerald eyes. Nor do you, obviously. I’m off. Take care, Jarre.’
‘Goodbye . . . Ciri. Have a safe journey. I’ll . . . I’ll be thinking of you . . .’
Ciri sighed.
‘I’m here, Lady Yennefer!’
She flew into the chamber like a shot from a catapult and the door thumped open, slamming against the wall. She could have broken her legs on the stool standing in her way but Ciri jumped
over it deftly, gracefully executed a half-pirouette feigning the slash of a sword, and joyfully laughed at her successful trick. Despite running briskly, she did not pant but breathed evenly and calmly. She had mastered breath control to perfection.
‘I’m here!’ she repeated.
‘At last. Get undressed, and into the tub. Quick.’
The enchantress did not look round, did not turn away from the table, looked at Ciri in the mirror. Slowly. She combed her damp, black curls which straightened under the pressure of the comb only to spring back a moment later into shiny waves.
The girl unbuckled her boots in a flash, kicked them off, freed herself of her clothes and with a splash landed in the tub. Grabbing the soap, she started to energetically scrub her forearms.
Yennefer sat motionless, staring at the window and toying with her comb. Ciri snorted, spluttered and spat because soap had got into her mouth. She tossed her head wandering whether a spell existed which could make washing possible without water, soap and wasting time.
The magician put the comb aside but, lost in thought, kept gazing through the window at the swarms of ravens and crows croaking horrifically as they flew east. On the table, next to the mirror and an impressive array of bottled cosmetics, lay several letters. Ciri knew that Yennefer had been waiting for them a long time and that the day on which they were to leave the Temple depended on her receiving these letters. In spite of what she had told Jarre, the girl had no idea where and why they were leaving. But in those letters . . .
Splashing with her left hand so as to mislead, she arranged the fingers of her right in a gesture, concentrated on a formula, fixed her eyes on the letters and sent out an impulse.
‘Don’t you even dare,’ said Yennefer, without turning around.
‘I thought . . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘I thought one of them might be from Geralt . . .’
‘If it was, I’d have given it to you.’ The magician turned in her chair and sat facing her. ‘Are you going to be long washing?’
‘I’ve finished.’
‘Get up, please.’
Ciri obeyed. Yennefer smiled faintly.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you’ve finished with childhood. You’ve rounded out where necessary. Lower your hands. I’m not interested in your elbows. Well, well, don’t blush, no false shyness. It’s your body, the most natural thing in the world. And the fact that you’re developing is just as natural. If your fate had turned out differently … If it weren’t for the war, you’d have long been the wife of some duke or prince. You realise that, don’t you? We’ve discussed matters concerning your gender often enough and in enough detail for you to know that you’re already a woman. Physiologically, that is to say. Surely you’ve not forgotten what we talked about?’
‘No. I haven’t.’
When you visit Jarre I hope there aren’t any problems with your memory either?’
Ciri lowered her eyes, but only momentarily. Yennefer did not smile.
‘Dry yourself and come here,’ she said coolly. ‘No splashing, please.’
Wrapped in a towel, Ciri sat down on the small chair at the magician’s knees. Yennefer brushed the girl’s hair, every now and again snipping off a disobedient wisp with a pair of scissors.
‘Are you angry with me?’ asked the girl reluctantly. ‘For, for . . . going to the tower?’
‘No. But Nenneke doesn’t like it. You know that.’
‘But I haven’t … I don’t care about Jarre in the least.’ Ciri blushed a little. ‘I only . . .’
‘Exactly,’ muttered the enchantress. ‘You only. Don’t play the child because you’re not one any more, let me remind you. That boy slobbers and stammers at the sight of you. Can’t you see that?’
‘That’s not my fault! What am I supposed to do?’
Yennefer stopped combing Ciri’s hair and measured her with a deep, violet gaze.
‘Don’t toy with him. It’s base.’
‘But I’m not toying with him! I’m only talking to him!’
‘I’d like to believe,’ the enchantress said as she snipped her
scissors, cutting yet another wisp of hair which would not allow itself to be styled for anything in the world, ‘that during these conversations, you remember what I asked you.’
‘I remember, I remember!’
‘He’s an intelligent and bright boy. One or two inadvertent words could lead him on the right track, to matters he should know nothing about. No one, absolutely no one must find out who you are.’
‘I remember,’ repeated Ciri. ‘I haven’t squealed a word to anyone, you can be sure of that. Tell me, is that why we have to leave so suddenly? Are you afraid that someone’s going to find out I’m here? Is that why?’
‘No. There are other reasons.’
‘Is it because . . . there might be a war? Everybody’s talking about another war! Everybody’s talking about it, Lady Yennefer.’
‘Indeed,’ the magician confirmed coolly, snipping her scissors just above Ciri’s ear. ‘It’s a subject which belongs to the so-called interminable category. There’s been talk about wars in the past, there is talk now and there always will be. And not without reason there have been wars and there will be wars. Lower your head.’
‘Jarre said . . . that there’s not going to be a war with Nilfgaard. He spoke of some sort of analogies . . . Showed me a map. I don’t know what to think myself any more. I don’t know what these analogies are, probably something terribly clever . . . Jarre reads various learned books and knows it all, but I think . . .’
‘It interests me, what you think, Ciri.’
‘In Cintra . . . That time . . . Lady Yennefer, my grandmother was much cleverer than Jarre. King Eist was clever, too. He sailed the seas, saw everything, even a narwhal and sea serpent, and I bet he also saw many an analogy. And so what? Suddenly they appeared, the Nilfgaardians . . .’
Ciri raised her head and her voice stuck in her throat. Yennefer put her arms around her and hugged her tightly.
‘Unfortunately,’ she said quietly, ‘unfortunately, you’re right, my ugly one. If the ability to make use of experience and draw conclusions decided, we would have forgotten what war is a long
time ago. But those whose goal is war have never been held back, nor will be, by experience or analogy.’
‘So . . . It’s true, after all. There is going to be a war. Is that why we have to leave?’
‘Let’s not talk about it. Let’s not worry too soon.’
Ciri sniffed.
‘I’ve already seen a war,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to see another. Never. I don’t want to be alone again. I don’t want to be frightened. I don’t want to lose everything again, like that time. I don’t want to lose Geralt … or you, Lady Yennefer. I don’t want to lose you. I want to stay with you. And him. Always.’
‘You will.’ The magician’s voice trembled a little. ‘And I’m going to be with you, Ciri. Always. I promise you.’
Ciri sniffed again. Yennefer coughed quietly, put down the scissors and comb, got to her feet and crossed over to the window. The ravens were still croaking in their flight towards the mountains.
‘When I arrived here,’ the lady magician suddenly said in her usual, melodious, slightly mocking voice. ‘When we first met . . . You didn’t like me.’
Ciri did not say anything. Our first meeting, she thought. I remember. I was in the Grotto with the other girls. Hrosvitha was showing us plants and herbs. Then Iola the First came in and whispered something in Hrosvitha’s ear. The priestess grimaced with animosity. And Iola the First came up to me with a strange expression of her face. ‘Get yourself together, Ciri,’ she said, ‘and go the refectory, quick. Mother Nenneke is summoning you. Someone has arrived.’
Strange, meaningful glances, excitement in their eyes. And whispers. Yennefer. ‘Magician Yennefer. Quick, Ciri, hurry up. Mother Nenneke is waiting. And she is waiting.’
I knew immediately, thought Ciri, that it was her. Because Yd seen her. I’d seen her the night before. In my dream.
Her.
I didn’t know her name then. She didn’t say anything in my dream. She only looked at me and behind her, in the darkness, I saw a closed door . . .
Ciri sighed. Yennefer turned and the obsidian star on her neck glittered with a thousand reflections.
‘You’re right,’ admitted the girl seriously, looking straight into the magician’s violet eyes. ‘I didn’t like you.’
‘Ciri,’ said Nenneke, ‘come closer. This is Lady Yennefer from Vengerberg, Mistress of Wizardry. Don’t be frightened. Lady Yennefer knows who you are. You can trust her.’
The girl bowed, interlocking her palms in a gesture of full respect. The enchantress, rustling her long, black dress, approached, took Ciri by the chin and quite off-handedly lifted her head, turning it right and left. The girl felt anger and rebellion rising within her – she was not used to being treated this way. And at the same time, she experienced a burning envy. Yennefer was very beautiful. Compared to the delicate, pale and rather common comeliness of the priestesses and novices who Ciri saw every day, the magician glowed with a conscious, even demonstrative loveliness, emphasised and accentuated in every detail. Her raven-black locks cascading down her shoulders shone, reflected the light like the feathers of a peacock, curling and undulating with every move. Ciri suddenly felt ashamed, ashamed of her grazed elbows, chapped hands, broken nails, her ashen, stringy hair. All of a sudden, she had an overwhelming desire to possess what Yennefer had – a beautiful, exposed neck and on it a lovely black velvet ribbon with a lovely glittering star. Regular eyebrows, accentuated with charcoal, and long eyelashes. Proud lips. And those two mounds which rose with every breath, hugged by black cloth and white lace . . .