‘Yes. But not a very proficient one.’
‘Yet he managed to escape from you. I saw how he did it – he teleported, didn’t he? Doesn’t that prove anything?’
‘Indeed it does. That someone helped him. Rience had neither the time nor the strength to open an oval portal suspended in the air. A portal like that is no joke. It’s clear that someone else opened it. Someone far more powerful. That’s why I was afraid to chase him, not knowing where I would land. But I sent some pretty hot stuff after him. He’s going to need a lot of spells and some effective burn elixirs, and will remain marked for some time.’
‘Maybe you will be interested to hear that he was a Nilfgaardian.’
‘You think so?’ Yennefer sat up and with a swift movement pulled the stiletto from her pocket and turned it in her palm. ‘A lot of people carry Nilfgaardian knives now. They’re comfortable and handy – they can even be hidden in a cleavage—’
‘It’s not the knife. When he was questioning me he used the term “battle for Cintra”, “conquest of the town” or something along those lines. I’ve never heard anyone describe those events like that. For us, it has always been a massacre. The Massacre of Cintra. No one refers to it by any other name.’
The magician raised her hand, scrutinised her nails. ‘Clever, Dandilion. You have a sensitive ear.’
‘It’s a professional hazard.’
‘I wonder which profession you have in mind?’ She smiled coquettishly. ‘But thank you for the information. It was valuable.’
‘Let it be,’ he replied with a smile, ‘my contribution to making changes for the better. Tell me, Yennefer, why is Nilfgaard so interested in Geralt and the girl from Cintra?’
‘Don’t stick your nose into that business.’ She suddenly turned serious. ‘I said you were to forget you ever heard of Calanthe’s granddaughter.’
‘Indeed, you did. But I’m not searching for a subject for a ballad.’
‘What the hell are you searching for then? Trouble?’
‘Let’s take it,’ he said quietly, resting his chin on his clasped hands and looking the enchantress in the eye. ‘Let’s take it that Geralt did, in fact, find and rescue the child. Let’s take it that he finally came to believe in the power of destiny, and took the child with him. Where to? Rience tried to force it out of me with torture. But you know, Yennefer. You know where the witcher is hiding.’
‘I do.’
‘And you know how to get there.’
‘I know that too.’
‘Don’t you think he should be warned? Warned that the likes of Rience are looking for him and the little girl? I would go, but I honestly don’t know where it is… That place whose name I prefer not to say…’
‘Get to the point, Dandilion.’
‘If you know where Geralt is, you ought to go and warn him. You owe him that, Yennefer. There was, after all, something between you.’
‘Yes,’ she acknowledged coldly. ‘There was something between us. That’s why I know him a bit. He does not like having help imposed on him. And if he was in need of it he would seek it from those he could trust. A year has gone by since those events and I… I’ve not had any news from him. And as for our debt, I owe him exactly as much as he owes me. No more and no less.’
‘So I’ll go then.’ He raised his head high. ‘Tell me—’
‘I won’t,’ she interrupted. ‘Your cover’s blown, Dandilion. They might come after you again; the less you know the better. Vanish from here. Go to Redania, to Dijkstra and Filippa Eilhart, stick to Vizimir’s court. And I warn you once more: forget the Lion Cub of Cintra. Forget about Ciri. Pretend you have never heard the name. Do as I ask. I wouldn’t like anything bad to happen to you. I like you too much, owe you too much—’
‘You’ve said that already. What do you owe me, Yennefer?’
The sorceress turned her head away, did not say anything for a while.
‘You travelled with him,’ she said finally. ‘Thanks to you he was not alone. You were a friend to him. You were with him.’
The bard lowered his eyes.
‘He didn’t get much from it,’ he muttered. ‘He didn’t get much from our friendship. He had little but trouble because of me. He constantly had to get me out of some scrape… help me…’
She leaned across the table, put her hand on his and squeezed it hard without saying anything. Her eyes held regret.
‘Go to Redania,’ she repeated after a moment. ‘To Tretogor. Stay in Dijkstra’s and Filippa’s care. Don’t play at being a hero. You have got yourself mixed up in a dangerous affair, Dandilion.’
‘I’ve noticed.’ He grimaced and rubbed his aching shoulder. ‘And that is precisely why I believe Geralt should be warned. You are the only one who knows where to look for him. You know the way. I guess you used to be… a guest there…?’
Yennefer turned away. Dandilion saw her lips pinch, the muscles in her cheek quiver.
‘Yes, in the past,’ she said and there was something elusive and strange in her voice. ‘I used to be a guest there, sometimes. But never uninvited.’
* * *
The wind howled savagely, rippling through the grasses growing over the ruins, rustling in the hawthorn bushes and tall nettles. Clouds sped across the sphere of the moon, momentarily illuminating the great castle, drenching the moat and few remaining walls in a pale glow undulating with shadows, and revealing mounds of skulls baring their broken teeth and staring into nothingness through the black holes of their eye-sockets. Ciri squealed sharply and hid her face in the witcher’s cloak.
The mare, prodded on by the witcher’s heels, carefully stepped over a pile of bricks and passed through the broken arcade. Her horseshoes, ringing against the flagstones, awoke weird echoes between the walls, muffled by the howling gale. Ciri trembled, digging her hands into the horse’s mane.
‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered.
‘There’s nothing to be frightened of,’ replied the witcher, laying his hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s hard to find a safer place in the whole world. This is Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Keep. There used to be a beautiful castle here. A long time ago.’
She did not reply, bowing her head low. The witcher’s mare, called Roach, snorted quietly, as if she too wanted to reassure the girl.
They immersed themselves in a dark abyss, in a long, unending black tunnel dotted with columns and arcades. Roach stepped confidently and willingly, ignoring the impenetrable darkness, and her horseshoes rang brightly against the floor.
In front of them, at the end of the tunnel, a straight, vertical line suddenly flared with a red light. Growing taller and wider it became a door beyond which was a faint glow, the flickering brightness of torches stuck in iron mounts on the walls. A black figure stood framed in the door, blurred by the brightness.
‘Who comes?’ Ciri heard a menacing, metallic voice which sounded like a dog’s bark. ‘Geralt?’
‘Yes, Eskel. It’s me.’
‘Come in.’
The witcher dismounted, took Ciri from the saddle, stood her on the ground and pressed a bundle into her little hands which she grabbed tightly, only regretting that it was too small for her to hide behind completely.
‘Wait here with Eskel,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Roach to the stables.’
‘Come into the light, laddie,’ growled the man called Eskel. ‘Don’t lurk in the dark.’
Ciri looked up into his face and barely restrained her frightened scream. He wasn’t human. Although he stood on two legs, although he smelled of sweat and smoke, although he wore ordinary human clothes, he was not human. No human can have a face like that, she thought.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ repeated Eskel.
She didn’t move. In the darkness she heard the clatter of Roach’s horseshoes grow fainter. Something soft and squeaking ran over her foot. She jumped.
‘Don’t loiter in the dark, or the rats will eat your boots.’
Still clinging to her bundle Cir
i moved briskly towards the light. The rats bolted out from beneath her feet with a squeak. Eskel leaned over, took the package from her and pulled back her hood.
‘A plague on it,’ he muttered. ‘A girl. That’s all we need.’
She glanced at him, frightened. Eskel was smiling. She saw that he was human after all, that he had an entirely human face, deformed by a long, ugly, semi-circular scar running from the corner of his mouth across the length of his cheek up to the ear.
‘Since you’re here, welcome to Kaer Morhen,’ he said. ‘What do they call you?’
‘Ciri,’ Geralt replied for her, silently emerging from the darkness. Eskel turned around. Suddenly, quickly, wordlessly, the witchers fell into each other’s arms and wound their shoulders around each other tight and hard. For one brief moment.
‘Wolf, you’re alive.’
‘I am.’
‘All right.’ Eskel took a torch from its bracket. ‘Come on. I’m closing the inner gates to stop the heat escaping.’
They walked along the corridor. There were rats here, too; they flitted under the walls, squeaked from the dark abyss, from the branching passages, and skittered before the swaying circle of light thrown by the torch. Ciri walked quickly, trying to keep up with the men.
‘Who’s wintering here, Eskel? Apart from Vesemir?’
‘Lambert and Coën.’
They descended a steep and slippery flight of stairs. A gleam was visible below them. Ciri heard voices, detected the smell of smoke.
The hall was enormous, and flooded with light from a huge hearth roaring with flames which were being sucked up into the heart of the chimney. The centre of the hall was taken up by an enormous, heavy table. At least ten people could sit around that table. There were three. Three humans. Three witchers, Ciri corrected herself. She saw nothing but their silhouettes against the fire in the hearth.
‘Greetings, Wolf. We’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Greetings, Vesemir. Greetings, lads. It’s good to be home again.’
‘Who have you brought us?’
Geralt was silent for a moment, then put his hand on Ciri’s shoulder and lightly pushed her forward. She walked awkwardly, hesitantly, huddled up and hunched, her head lowered. I’m frightened, she thought. I’m very frightened. When Geralt found me, when he took me with him, I thought the fear wouldn’t come back. I thought it had passed… And now, instead of being at home, I’m in this terrible, dark, ruined old castle full of rats and dreadful echoes… I’m standing in front of a red wall of fire again. I see sinister black figures, I see dreadful, menacing, glistening eyes staring at me—
‘Who is this child, Wolf? Who is this girl?’
‘She’s my…’ Geralt suddenly stammered. She felt his strong, hard hands on her shoulders. And suddenly the fear disappeared, vanished without a trace. The roaring red fire gave out warmth. Only warmth. The black silhouettes were the silhouettes of friends. Carers. Their glistening eyes expressed curiosity. Concern. And unease…
Geralt’s hands clenched over her shoulders.
‘She’s our destiny.’
BAPTISM OF FIRE
Please note – this is an exclusive sneak look at the first pass of the translation of the first chapter of Baptism of Fire. It has not been edited, copyedited or proofread. It should not be quoted from or assumed to be representative of the final version, which may be significantly different.
Then the soothsayer spake thus to the witcher: ‘This counsel I shall give you: don hobnailed boots and take an iron staff. Walk in your hobnailed boots to the end of the world, tap the road in front of you with the staff, and let your tears fall. Go through fire and water, do not stop, do not look back. And when your boots are worn out, when your iron staff is worn down, when the wind and the sun have dried your eyes such that not a single tear will fall from them, then you will find what you are searching for, what you love, at the end of the world. Perhaps.’
And the witcher walked through fire and water, never looking back. But he took neither hobnailed boots nor a staff. He took only his witcher’s sword. He obeyed not the words of the soothsayer. And rightly so, for she was evil.
Flourens Delannoy, Tales and legends
Chapter One
Birds were chirping loudly in the undergrowth.
The slopes of the ravine were overgrown with a dense, tangled mass of brambles and barberry; a perfect place for nesting and feeding. Not surprisingly, it was teeming with birds. Greenfinches trilled loudly, redpolls and whitethroats twittered, and chaffinches gave out ringing ‘pink-pink’s every now and then. The chaffinch’s call signals rain, thought Milva, involuntarily glancing up at the sky. There were no clouds. But chaffinches always warn of the rain. We could do with a little rain.
This spot, opposite the mouth of a ravine, was a good place for a hunter, giving a decent chance of a kill – particularly here in Brokilon, which was abundant with game. The dryads, who controlled extensive tracts of forest, rarely hunted and humans dared to venture into it even less often. Here, a hunter greedy for meat or pelts became the quarry himself. The Brokilon dryads showed no mercy to intruders. Milva had once discovered that for herself.
No, Brokilon was not short of game. Nonetheless, Milva had been waiting in the undergrowth for more than two hours and nothing had crossed her line of sight. She couldn’t hunt on the move; the drought which had lasted for more than a month had lined the forest floor with dry brush and leaves, which rustled and crackled at every step. In conditions like these, only standing motionless and unseen would lead to success, and prey.
An admiral butterfly alighted on the nock of her bow. Milva didn’t shoo it away, but watched it closing and opening its wings. She also looked at her bow, a recent acquisition which she still wasn’t tired of admiring. She was a born archer and loved a good weapon. And she was holding the best of the best.
Milva had owned many bows in her life. She had learned to shoot using ordinary ash and yew bows, but soon gave them up for composite recurve bows, of the type elves and dryads used. Elven bows were shorter, lighter and more manageable and, owing to the laminated composition of wood and animal sinew, much ‘quicker’ than yew bows. An arrow shot with them reached the target much more swiftly and along a flatter arc, which considerably reduced the possibility of its being blown off course. The best examples of such weapons, bent fourfold, bore the elven name of ‘zefhar’, since the bow’s shape formed that rune. Milva had used zefhars for several years and couldn’t imagine a bow capable of outclassing them.
But she had finally came across one. It was, of course, at the Seaside Bazaar in Cidaris, which was renowned for its diverse selection of strange and rare goods brought by sailors from the most distant corners of the world; from anywhere a frigate or and galleon could reach. Whenever she could, Milva would visit the bazaar and look at the foreign bows. It was there she bought the bow she’d thought would serve her for many years. She had thought the zefhar from Zerrikania, reinforced with polished antelope horn, was perfect. For one year. Twelve months later, at the same market stall, owned by the same trader, she had found another rare beauty.
The bow came from the far North. It measured just over five feet, was made of mahogany, had a perfectly balanced riser and flat, laminated limbs, glued together from alternating layers of fine wood, boiled sinews and whalebone. It differed from the other composite bows in its construction and also in its price; it had been the price that initially caught Milva’s attention. When, however, she picked up the bow and flexed it, she paid the price the trader was asking without hesitation or haggling. Four hundred Novigrad crowns. Naturally, she didn’t have such a titanic sum on her; instead she had given up her Zerrikanian zefhar, a bunch of looted sable pelts, a small, exquisite elven-made medallion, and a coral cameo pendant on a string of river pearls.
But she didn’t regret it. Not ever. The bow was incredibly light and, quite simply, perfectly accurate. Although it wasn’t long it had an impressive kick to its laminated wood an
d sinew limbs. Equipped with a silk and hemp bowstring stretched between its precisely curved limbs, it generated fifty-five pounds of force from a twenty-four-inch draw. True enough, there were bows that could generate eighty, but Milva considered that excessive. An arrow shot from her whalebone fifty-fiver covered a distance of two hundred feet in two heartbeats, and at a hundred paces still had enough force to injure a stag, while it would pass right through an unarmoured human. Milva rarely hunted animals larger than red deer or heavily armoured men.
The butterfly flew away. The chaffinches continued to make a racket in the undergrowth. And remained out of sight. Milva leant back against the trunk of a pine and began to think back. Simply to kill time.
* * *
Her first encounter with the Witcher had taken place in July, two weeks after the events on the Isle of Thanedd and the outbreak of war in Dol Angra. Milva had returned to Brokilon after an absence of about two week’s; she was leading the remains of a Scoia’tael commando group defeated in Temeria during an attempt to make their way into war-torn Aedirn. The Squirrels had wanted to join the uprising incited by the elves in Dol Blathann. They had failed, and would have perished if it hadn’t been for Milva. But they’d found her, and refuge, in Brokilon.
Immediately on her arrival, she had been informed that Aglaïs needed her urgently her in Col Serrai. Milva had been a little taken aback. Aglaïs was the superior of the Brokilon healers, and the deep valley of Col Serria, with its hot springs and caves, was where healings usually took place.
She responded to the call, convinced it concerned some elf who had been healed and needed her help to re-establish contact with his commando. But when she saw the wounded Witcher and learned what it was about, she was absolutely furious. She ran from the cave with her hair streaming behind her and offloaded all her anger on Aglaïs.
‘He saw me! He saw my face! Do you understand what danger that puts me in?’
‘No, no I don’t understand,’ replied the healer coldly. ‘That is Gwynbleidd, the Witcher, a friend of Brokilon. He has been here for a fortnight, since the new moon. And more time will pass before he will be able to get up and walk normally. He craves tidings from the world; news about those close to him. Only you can supply him with that.’