She got up, opened the window and felt the cool night air, and saw the moonlight falling on the mist from the lake.
And then she dreamed on.
The tower of Inis Vitre had a balcony that overlooked the lake. At first Condwiramurs paid it no attention, but over time she had reason to ponder. The balcony was special because it was inaccessible. It was impossible to get to it from any room she knew.
Aware that the home of the sorceress cannot go with such a secret anomaly, Condwiramurs did not ask questions. Even when taking a stroll around the lake she saw Nimue watching. Apparently in was only inaccessible to those unauthorized and uninvited. She was a little angry because it was considered rude but pretended that she did not see anything.
But it did not take long to before the mystery was solved.
It was after a series of dreams, caused by Wilma Wessely’s watercolors. The author was apparently fascinated by the adventures of Ciri and the Tower of the Swallow, because all of her works had been devoted to them.
‘I’ve had weird dreams,’ she complained one morning. ‘...I dream images. Not scenes, no scenes, but pictures. Ciri and a tower... A still picture.’
‘And nothing more? Nothing except the visual experience?’
Nimue, of course, knew that as a capable dreamer, like Condwiramurs used all her senses, she doesn’t just receive the dream through her eyes like most people, but also through hearing, touch, smell – and even taste.
‘Nothing,’ said the adept. ‘Just...’
‘Well?’
‘A thought. A stubborn thought. In this tower, I’m not a lady, but a prisoner.’
‘Come with me.’
As Condwiramurs had guessed, access to the balcony was only possible going through the private chambers of the sorceress. Clean rooms that were meticulously neat and fragrant smelling of sandalwood, myrrh, lavender and mothballs. It was necessary to use a small secret door and a spiral staircase leading down.
Then they came to where they had to go.
The chamber, in contrast to the other rooms, did not have wood paneling on the walls, or tapestries, it was only whitewashed so it was very light. Even more clear light, because there
was a huge triple window, or rather a glass door, which led directly to the balcony overhanging the lake.
The only furniture in the room were two chairs, a huge oval framed mirror and a sort of mahogany stand with a horizontal framework where a tapestry had been hung. The tapestry measured about five feet seven and reached its fringes to the floor.
The tapestry showed a rocky bluff overlooking a mountain lake. A castle was embedded in the cliff that seemed to be part of the stone wall. Condwiramurs knew the castle well, she had seen it in many illustrations.
‘Vilgefortz’s citadel, where he imprisoned Yennefer. Where the legend ended.’
‘Yes,’ Nimue said, apparently indifferent. ‘That is where the legend ended, at least in the traditional versions. We know these versions, so it seems to up that this is the ending. Ciri escaped from the Tower of the Swallow, were, as you dreamed, she was being held as a prisoner. When she realized what they wanted to do, she ran away. The legend give many versions of this escape...’
‘I,’ interrupted the adept,’ liked the best version, we the objects are thrown behind her. A comb, and apple and a handkerchief. But...’
‘Condwiramurs.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘As I said, there are many versions of the flight. But it still remains unclear how Ciri went directly from the Tower to the Swallow to Vilgefortz’s castle. If you cannot dream of the Tower of the Swallow, then try and dream of the castle. Look carefully at the tapestry... Are you listening?’
‘This mirror... It’s magic, right?’
‘No. I squeeze pimples in front of it.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It is a mirror of Hartmann,’ Nimue said, seeing the adept’s wrinkled nose and angry gesture. ‘You may want to look. But be careful, please.’
‘Is it true,’ Condwiramurs asked, her voice trembling with excitement, ‘that with a mirror of Hartmann you can move to others...’
‘Worlds?’ It is. But not immediately, not without long preparation, exercise, mediation and many other things. When I urged caution, I was thinking of something else.’
‘What?’
‘The mirror of Hartmann works in both directions. It is always possible someone or something may come out.’
‘Do you know, Nimue… When I look at the tapestry…’
‘Did you dream last night?’
‘I dreamed. But strangely. A bird’s eye view. I was a bird… I saw the castle from outside. I could not get inside, something was guarding the entrance.’
‘Look at the tapestry,’ Nimue ordered. ‘Look at the citadel. Look carefully, focus your attention to every detail. Concentrate hard, record this image in your memory. I want you, if you can get there in the dream, to go inside. It is important that you enter.’
Outside, beyond the castle walls, raged a blizzard but inside, fuelled by thick logs a fire blazed. Yennefer reveled in the warmth. Her current cell was indeed better than the wet cell, in which she had spent the last two months, but even so, her teeth chattered with the cold.
While imprisoned she had lost track of time, they were in no hurry to inform her of the date, but she was certain it was winter, in December, maybe January.
‘Eat, Yennefer,’ Vilgefortz said. ‘Do not hesitate.’
The sorceress did not allow for embarrassment or accident. She ate slowly only because her barely healed fingers were stiff and awkward and it was difficult to hold the cutlery. And she would not eat with her hands, she was eager to show her superiority to Vilgefortz and the rest of the guests of the sorcerer. She knew none of them.
‘It is with great regret I must inform you,’ said Vilgefortz, his fingers caressing the stem of his cup, ‘that Ciri, your ward, has departed from this world. You can only blame yourself, Yennefer. And your foolish stubbornness.’
One of the guests, a short man with dark hair, sneezed loudly, wiping snot on a cambric handkerchief. His nose was red, swollen and undeniably congested.
‘To your health,’ Yennefer said, not upset at all by Vilgefortz angry words. ‘How did you come by such a terrible cold, noble sir? Did you stand in a draft after a bath?’
Another guest, an older, taller, thin man, with unnaturally pale eyes, laughed. The man with the cold, though his face flushed with anger, thanked the sorceress with a short bow and a short, nasal response. It was not short enough to hide the Nilfgaardian accent.
Vilgefortz turned to face her. He no longer wore on his head the golden structure or the glass lens over his eye socket, but it looked even worse than in the summer, when she saw him maimed for the first time. The left eyeball had regenerated sufficiently, but was much smaller than the right. The appearance was breath-taking.
‘You, Yennefer,’ he drawled, ‘probably think I’m lying to deceive you. Why would I? The report of the girl’s death has crushed me like you, if not more. After all I had far-reaching plans for her, which would decide about my future. Ciri is dead and now my plans have collapsed.’
‘Good,’ Yennefer, barely keeping the knife in your fingers, clumsily cut into her second course of stuffed pork chop.
‘On the contrary,’ continued the sorcerer, ‘to you Ciri was only a silly sentiment, consisting of equal parts of the penalty of your infertility and your guilt. Yes, yes, Yennefer, a sentiment of guilt! After you had actively participated in genetic experiments, by which Ciri came into the world. Incidentally the experiment failed because the experimenters lacked knowledge.’
Yennefer saluted him in silence, praying that the cup would not slip from her fingers. She slowly came to the conclusion that at least two of them would be stiff for a long time. Maybe permanently.
Vilgefortz snorted at her gesture.
‘It’s too late,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘you have to know, Yennefer, I ha
ve enough knowledge. And if I had this girl, I would use this knowledge. In fact, you have nothing to regret, even though you are dry and barren as a desert, I wanted to strengthen the weak maternal instinct and give you not only a daughter, but even a grandchild. Or at least an ersatz grandchild.
Yennefer snorted dismissively, although inside she was boiling with rage.
‘I’m sorry to spoil your good humor, my dear,’ said the wizard coldly. ‘Because I have the sad news that the witcher, Geralt of Rivia is also dead. Yes, Yes, the same witcher Geralt, with whom, as with Ciri, you associated your surrogate feelings, foolish, embarrassing and nauseating to the stomach. Know Yennefer that our dear friend, the witcher, said goodbye to the world in a truly fiery spectacular. On this occasion, you should not have any remorse. For the witcher’s death, you are not guilty to even the smallest degree. All the credit belongs to me. Taste the candied pears, they are really delicious.’
Yennefer’s violet eyes blazed with hatred.
Vilgefortz laughed.
‘Such is your will,’ he said, ‘Indeed, if not for your dimeritium bracelets, your eyes would have burned me to ashes. But since the dimeritium is working, you cannot burn me, only look.’
The man with the cold, sneezed, blew his nose and coughed until there were tears in his eyes. The tall man looked at her with his unpleasant fish eyes.
‘And where is Mister Rience?’ Yennefer asked, emphasizing the words. ‘Mister Rience, who has promised to do so much to me. And where is Mister Schirrú, who never failed to hit or kick me? And why does my guard, who until recently, were violent and vulgar brutes, started to behave in timid reverence? No, do not answer, Vilgefortz. I think I know. What you told me is a lie. You have lost Ciri and Geralt escaped, while organizing a bloodbath for your minions. Now what? Your plans have collapsed, turned to dust and you yourself have recognized that your dreams of power have faded like smoke. And the sorceresses and Dijkstra draw closer and closer. It is not without reason and not out of pity that you have stopped torturing me. And Emperor Emhyr tightens his network, and this is turning out to be very, very bad. Ess a tearth, me tiarn? A’pleine a cales, ellea?’
‘I understand elder speech,’ said the Nilfgaardian with the cold. ‘And my name is Stefan Skellen. And I do not have full pants. Rather, I believe I am in a considerably better situation that you, Lady Yennefer.’
After the speech he took a breath, coughed again and blew his nose into his soaked handkerchief. Vilgefortz slapped the table with his opened hand.
‘No more games,’ Vilgefortz said, rolling his miniature macabre eye. ‘Know Yennefer that you are no longer needed by me. In fact, I should put you in a sack and drown you in the lake, but I tend to draw on such methods with the greatest distaste. Until such a time circumstances permit me or force me to another decision, you will remain isolated. But I warn you – don’t cause me any problems. If you try to go on a hunger strike again, I will no longer waste time trying to feed you through a tube. I will simply let you starve. And if you try and escape, the guard’s orders are clear. And now, farewell. Unless you haven’t satisfied yourself…’
‘No,’ Yennefer stood up and crumpled her napkin on the table. ‘Maybe it was something I ate, but the company has taken away my appetite. Goodbye, gentlemen.’
Stefan Skellen sneezed and coughed. The tall man with the pale eyes measured her with anger and a sinister smile. Vilgefortz looked away.
As usual, when being led from cell to cell, Yennefer tried to figure out when she was, to get some scrap of information that could help her plan her escape. And as usual, she was disappointed, the corridors down which she was led, had no windows, so there was no chance to see the surrounding countryside, or at least the sin in order to determine the cardinal points. Telepathy was prevented by the two heavy bracelets and a hoop around her neck, all of dimeritium, which effectively blocked any attempt to use magic.
The chamber in which she was imprisoned, was as cold and bleak as a hermit’s hut. Yennefer remembered, however, how happy she was when they had moved her here from the dungeon. From the basement, in whose bottom there was always a stinking pool of water, and the walls dripped with nitrate and salt. The basement where they fed her leftovers in which the rats tore the bits from her mangled fingers effortlessly.
When, after about two months he removed the chain, took her from there and allowed her to change clothes and bathe, Yennefer was beside herself with joy. He took her to a small room where she it seemed to be the bedroom of a king and the slurry that was served, bird’s nest soup, worth of an emperor’s table. Then things cleared. After a while the soup became a nasty slop, the bed a hard cot and the room a prison. A narrow cold prison, in which in just four steps you would come to the other wall.
Yennefer cursed, sighed and sat on the stool that was, apart from the cot, the only piece of furniture she had.
He came in so quiet that she almost didn’t hear him.
‘My name is Bonhart,’ he said. ‘I would be nice that you remember this name, witch. That you engrave it in your memory.’
‘Go fuck yourself, pig.’
‘I am a bounty hunter,’ he growled. ‘Three months ago, in September, I caught your little bastard in Ebbing – the famous Ciri, which you were talking about.’
Yennefer listen carefully. September. Ebbing. Caught her. But she isn’t here. Maybe he is lying?
‘The grey-haired witcher was trained at Kaer Morhen. I told her to fight in an arena, to kill people while people in the audience screamed. Slowly, slowly I turned her more into a beast. I taught her this role with whip, fist and boot. She learned for a long time. But then she escaped me, the green-eyed snake.’
Yennefer imperceptibly sighed with relief
‘She escaped into another world. But we will meet again, I’m sure of it. You know, witch, the only thing I regret is that your lover, the witcher Geralt was burned at the stake. I wanted to give him a taste of my blade, damn mutant.’
Yennefer snorted.
‘Listen, Bonhart, or whatever your name is. Do not make me laugh. The witcher was not brought up to heel. You cannot compare with him. You can only hunt puppies. Only small dogs.’
‘Look here, witch.’
With a sharp movement he parted his shirt and pulled out a chain with three silver medallions hanging from it. One had the shape of a cat’s head, the other an eagle or a griffin. The third she did not see exactly, but she thought it was a wolf.
‘Such trinkets,’ she said, feigning indifference, ‘you can buy at any fair.’
‘These are not from a fair.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘It was once so,’ hissed Bonhart, ‘that good people were afraid of the witchers more than the monsters. Monsters, after all, sat in the woods and caves, however, witchers had the nerve to walk the streets, enter taverns, and hover near shrines, temples, schools and playgrounds. Decent people were offended, so they started looking for someone who could bring the insolent witchers to order. They found someone. Not easily or soon, not even close. But they found someone. You see, I have killed three. Not another mutant appeared in the area to upset the honest citizens. And if he appeared, I do to him what I did to the previous ones.’
‘Really,’ Yennefer said, ‘with a crossbow from around a corner? Or by poisoning?’
Bonhart put the medallions back under his shirt and took a step towards her.
‘You insult me, witch.’
‘That’s what I wanted.’
‘Oh, really? Now I will show you, witch, that I can compete with your Witcher lover in any field and even be better than him.’
The guards standing at the door jumped upon hearing the crash, bang, howling and whimpering from the cell. And if the guards had ever happened in their life to hear a panther caught in trap, they would have sworn that the cell held a panther.
Then the guards heard from the cell a terrible roar, like a wounded lion, which they had also never heard on watch and only ever seen on their c
oat of arms. They looked at each other. Shook their heads and entered.
Yennefer sat in the corner of the room, among the remains of the stool.
Her hair was disheveled, her dress and shirt torn from top to bottom, her breasts rose sharply with her heavy breathing. Blood flowed from her nose, a bruise was quickly growing on her face, and there were scratches on her right arm.
Bonhart was sitting in the other corner of the room, among bits of stool, holding his head in both hands. He too was bleeding from his nose, the blood coloring his moustaches a deep crimson. His face was marked by bloody grooves. Yennefer’s barely healed fingers were a terrible weapon, but the dimeritium bracelets had some wonderfully sharp edges.
In Bonhart’s cheek, neatly along the cheek bone, embedded deeply was a fork, which Yennefer had silently stolen at dinner.
‘Only small dogs,’ the sorceress gasped, trying to cover her breast with the remains of her dress, ‘And stay away from the dogs, you are too weak for them, bastard.’
She could not forgive herself for not getting him where she was aiming – his eye. But the target was moving, and besides, no one is perfect.
Bonhart grunted, stood up, grabbed the fork and roared and reeled with pain. He swore horribly.
Meanwhile, two more guards had entered the room.
‘Hey, you!’ Bonhart roared, wiping blood from his face. ‘Come here! Hold this whore on the floor, stretch open her legs and hold her!’
The guards looked at each other, then at the ceiling.
‘You’d better leave, sir,’ said one. ‘There will be no hold or stretching here. It is not our job.’
‘Besides,’ added the second in a whisper, ‘we do not want to end up like Rience and Schirrú.’
Condwiramurs put down the paper which had an image of a prison cell. In the cell was a woman, sitting with her head down, shackled and chained to a stone wall.
‘They imprisoned her,’ she muttered. ‘while the witcher was in Toussaint with some dark haired lady.’
‘Are you condemning him?’ Nimue asked sharply. ‘Without knowing practically anything?’