The girl turned to look at him. She had had time to cover her face with her scarf, and her eyes, surrounded by glossy black circles watched him.
‘Those you see,’ stammered the old man, ‘will not escape death… Because you are death itself.’
The girl looked at him. For a long time. And quite indifferent.
‘You’re right,’ she finally said.
Somewhere in the swamps, far away, buy much closer than before, sounded the plaintive howl of a Beann’shie.
Vysogota lay on the ground, on which he had fallen while getting out of bed. He confirmed with horror that he could not get up. His heart beat up in his throat, strangling him.
He knew who’s death the cry of the elven spirit announced. Life was beautiful, he thought. In spite of everything.
‘Gods…’ he whispered. ‘I know I don’t believe in you… But, if you exist…’
A monstrous pain suddenly exploded in his chest under his breastbone.
Back in the swamps, far away, but much closer that before; the Beann’shie screamed a third time.
‘If you exist, protect the witcheress on her journey!’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘I have such big eyes the better to see you,’ growled the Wolf resolutely. ‘I have such big hands to better grab you and embrace you! With me everything is big, I will thoroughly convince you of that soon. Why are you looking at me so strangely, little girl? Why do not you answer?’
The sorceress smiled. ‘I have a surprise for you.’
Flourens Delannoy
‘The Surprise’ from Fairy Tales and Folk Stories
The initiates stood motionless before the High Priestess, straight, tense, silent, and a little pale. They were ready for the road, prepared to the smallest details. Grey, men’s clothing for travel, warm, but not constricting jackets, comfortable elven boots. Their hair was cut short or styled so that it would not interfere with their work and they could easily keep marching in order. Their small knapsacks were packed only with food and the necessary equipment for the journey. The Army would supply everything else. The army for which they had volunteered.
The faces of the girls were calm. Seemingly. Triss Merigold noticed the two girls’ slightly trembling hands and lips.
The wind blew through the bare branches of trees in the Temple Park. Rotted leaves drifted over the boards of the courtyard. The sky was indigo blue. There was snow in the air. You could smell it.
Nenneke broke the silence. ‘Have you been assigned?’
‘Not me,’ murmured Eurneid. ‘For now I'm to spend the winter in a camp near Vizima. The Advertising Commissioner said the mercenary units from the north will be situated there until spring... I am to be a field surgeon’s assistant for these units.’
‘But I’ – Iola the Second smiled palely – ‘I have already been assigned. To the field surgeon Mr. Milo Vanderbeck.’
‘I trust that you will not bring any disgrace to me.’ Nenneke fixed both initiates with a stern, thoughtful look. ‘To me, to the temple, or to the name of the Great Melitele.’
‘Certainly not, Mother.’
‘And make sure you get enough sleep.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘You'll be up ‘til you drop, working with the wounded, unable to sleep. You're going to doubt, going to be afraid of looking on pain and death. And then you find it easy to cope by using a narcotic or a stimulant. Be careful.’
‘We know, Mother.’
‘War, fear, murder, and blood’ – the High Priestess pierced both of them with her eyes – ‘mean moral decline, and on top of that, it is a strong aphrodisiac for some. How it will affect you, you brats, you cannot currently know. Please tell me you will be careful. And if it does come to something, you should take a contraceptive. Nevertheless, if one of you gets into trouble, then make a wide detour of the quacks and village women! Seek a temple, and most preferably a sorceress.’
‘We know, Mother.’
‘That's all. It’s time now for you to get your blessing.’
One after the other, she put her hand on their heads, hugged them, and kissed them. Eurneid sniffed. Iola the Second started blubbering. Although her own eyes glistened a little more than usual, Nenneke snorted. ‘No scenes, no scenes,’ she said sharply and started to bristle. ‘You go into an ordinary war. And you will come back. Take your belongings, and farewell.’
‘Farewell, Mother.’
They left the temple at a brisk pace, not looking back. They followed the two girls with their eyes – the High Priestess Nenneke, the sorceress Triss Merigold, and the scribe Jarre.
The latter gave a strong, meaningful cough.
‘What?’ Nenneke looked sideways at him.
‘You allowed it!’ The young man muttered bitterly. ‘You allowed the girls to sign up! And I? Why can I not? Should I continue to turn over musty parchments, here within these walls? I am neither a cripple nor a coward! It is a shameful for me to sit in the temple, when even the girls’...’
‘Those girls,’ interrupted the High Priestess, ‘have spent their entire young lives learning to heal people and to care for the sick and wounded. They do not go to war out of patriotism or love of adventure, but because there will be countless wounded and sick to care for. A mountain of work, day and night! Eurneid and Iola, Myrrha, Katye, Prune, Deborah, and the other girls are the Temple’s contribution to the war. The Temple, as part of this society, contributes to the society. It contributes trained specialists to the army and the war. Do you understand that, Jarre? Specialists! Not animals for the slaughter!’
‘Everyone joins the army! Only cowards stay at home!’
‘You're talking rubbish, Jarre,’ Triss said sharply. ‘You understand nothing.’
‘I want to go to war...’ The lad's voice broke. ‘I want to... save Ciri...’
‘Please,’ Nenneke said mockingly. ‘The knight wants to rush to the rescue of his. On a white horse...’
They fell silent under the gaze of the enchantress.
‘And now, I’ve had enough of this Jarre,’ her look almost shattered the young man. ‘I have told you, I will not allow it! Back to the books! Learn. Your future is science. Come, Triss. Let’s not waste any time.’
A canvas was spread in front of the altar. On it laid a bone comb, a cheap little ring, a shabby book cover, and a faded blue sash. Iola the First, a priestess with the second sight, leaned over the object.
‘Hurry not, Iola,’ warned Nenneke, who was standing next to her. ‘Concentrate slowly. We do not want a flash of prophecy, not a puzzle with thousands of solutions. We want a picture. A clear picture. Take on the aura of these things, they have heard Ciri, Ciri has touched them. Take on the aura. Slowly. There is no hurry.’
Outside the wind howled and snowflakes clumped together. The roof and courtyard of the temple were quickly covered the snow. It was the nineteenth day of November. The full moon.
‘I am ready, mother,’ said Iola the First with her melodic voice.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Triss rose from the bench like a spring and threw the chinchilla fur coat from her shoulders. ‘One moment, Nenneke. I want to go into a trance along with her.’
‘That is dangerous.’
‘I know. But I want to see. With my own eyes. I owe her. Ciri... I love this girl like a little sister. In Kaedwen she saved my life, while risking her own head...’ The voice of the enchantress suddenly broke.
The High Priestess shook her head. ‘Just like Jarre. Rushing to the rescue, blindly, headlong, without knowing where or why. But Jarre is a naive lad. You're an adult and, supposedly, should be wise magician. You should know that you cannot help Ciri by going into a trance. What you can do is hurt yourself.’
‘I will go along with Iola in a trance,’ repeated Triss as she bit her lip. ‘Allow me to Nenneke. By the way, what do I risk it? An epileptic seizure? Even if that happened, you'd get me out.’
‘You risk,’ said Nenneke slowly, ‘seei
ng something that you must not see.’
The thought of Sodden Hill filled Triss with horror. Where I am dead. Where I am buried and my name is carved into the obelisk monument. The hill and the grave that will someday memorialize me.
I know that. It has been prophesized to me.
‘I've made up my mind,’ she said coolly and patiently, as she stood up and stroked her beautiful hair behind her neck with both hands. ‘Let us begin.’
Nenneke knelt down and rested her forehead in her folded hands.
‘Let us begin,’ she said quietly. ‘Get ready, Iola. Kneel down beside me, Triss. Take Iola by the hand.
Outside it was night. The wind howled, the snow fell.
In the south, beyond the Amell Mountains in Metinna, in the countryside called Hundred Lakes, a place that was five hundred miles away in a straight line from the city of Ellander and the Temple of Melitele, a nightmare frightened the fisherman Gosta. Awake, Gosta could not remember the content of the dream, but a strange restlessness left him unable to sleep.
Any fisherman who knows his business, knows that you can only catch perch at first ice.
This year's winter, although unexpectedly early, played pranks and was moody like a beautiful and successful woman. The first frost and snow had come like a thief in a treacherous ambush, in early November, just after Saovine, because no one had reckoned on snow and frost that early and there was still plenty of work to do. The lakes were covered with a thin layer of ice, and by mid-November it seemed that it could bear the weight of a man, but the moody winter suddenly backed away – it was autumn again and the rain softened the ice sheet as a warm south wind jumped over the shore and melted the drifts. What the hell, wondered the country people, it is now winter, or is not?
It lasted for a mere three days, and then winter came back. This time it came without snow, but seized the frost like a blacksmith with his tongs. It cracked. The water dripping from the edges of the roofs became the sharp teeth of the icicles overnight, and the startled ducks were frozen by a hair in the duck ponds.
And the lakes of Centloch groaned and solidified into ice.
Gosta waited a day for safety, then took the box from the attic with the fishing equipment that he would carry on a strap over his shoulder. He stuffed his boots properly with straw, put on his fur coat, took his ice pick, packed his bag, and hurried to the lake.
As we know, you can only catch perch at first ice.
The ice was strong. It bent a little as it bore the weight of the man, cracked a little, but it held. Gosta walked freely over the surface, struck a hole in the ice with his pick, sat on the box, wrapped the line made from horsehair around a short rod of larch wood, tied the fishing hook onto the line, and hung it in the water. The first perch, half a yard long, bit even before the hook had dropped and the line was clamped.
After an hour had passed, a good half hundred green, striped fish with blood-red fins lay around the hole in the ice. Gosta had more perch than he needed, but the fishing fever did not leave him. In the end, he could distribute the fish to the neighbors.
He heard a long snort.
He looked up from the hole in the ice. A splendid black horse stood on the shore of the lake, hit steam shooting from its nostrils. Its rider was wearing muskrat fur and had covered his face with a scarf.
Gosta swallowed. It was too late to escape. He secretly hoped, however, that the rider would not dare to walk on the thin ice with the horse.
He was still mechanically moving the rod, and a perch jerked on the line. The fisherman pulled it out, removed the hook, and threw it onto the ice. From the corner of his eye he saw the rider jump out of the saddle, toss the reins over a barren bush, and cautiously approach the ice. The perch floundered on the ice, spreading its spiky tail and moving its gills. Gosta stood up and bent over for the pick, which could serve as a weapon if needed.
‘Do not worry.’
It was a girl. Now that she took off the scarf, he saw her face disfigured by an ugly scar. She carried a sword on her back, he could see the beautifully carved handle that towered over her shoulder.
‘I will not harm you,’ she said softly. ‘I just want to ask for directions.’
To where? Gosta thought. Now, in the winter. After the frost. Who travels in winter? Only a bandit. Or a necromancer.
‘Is this region the Centloch?’
‘Yes...’ he muttered, his eyes directed to the hole in the ice, into the black water. ‘Centloch. But here we say Hundred Lakes.’
‘And the lake Tarn Mira? Do you know of that?’
‘All know of it.’ He looked anxiously at the girl. ‘Only here we call it Bottomless. A cursed lake. A hideous shoal... It has fairies that drown people. And ghosts live in the accursed ancient ruins.’
He could see her green eyes flash.
‘There are ruins? A tower, perhaps?’
‘A tower?’ He could not suppress a disparaging snort. ‘A couple of stones on top of one another, covered with moss. A pile of rubble...’
The perch was no longer struggling, it only moved its colorful striped gills.
The girl looked at it thoughtfully. ‘Death on the ice,’ she said. ‘There is something captivating about that.’
‘Huh?’
‘How far is it to the lake and the ruins? Which way do I ride?’
He said it. Then he showed it. He even scratched it into the ice with the sharp end of the ice pick. She nodded her head and memorized it. The mare pounded its hooves on the ice lake, snorted, and blew steam out its nostrils.
He watched as she moved away towards the western shore, galloped up the slope, and faded against the backdrop of leafless alders and birch, into the beautiful, enchanted forest, which was adorned with a coating of white frost. The black mare ran with indescribable elegance, sharp, but also lightweight. You could hardly hear the sound of its hooves against the frozen ground, and the snow barely rippled from the branches that they grazed. Running through this ancient and frost-covered enchanted forest, it did not appear to be an ordinary horse, but rather a magical horse.
But perhaps it was an apparition?
A demon on a ghost horse, a demon who had assumed the form of a girl with big green eyes and a disfigured face?
Who, if not a demon, travelled in the winter? And asked for directions to haunted ruins?
After they had ridden away, Gosta quickly packed up his belongings. On his way home, he walked through the woods. It was a detour, but reason and instinct warned him not to use the road. Reason told him that the girl was, after all, not a ghost, but a human. The black mare was not an apparition, but a horse. And those who ride alone on horseback through the wilderness in the winter are all too often pursued.
An hour later the pursuers galloped along the forest path. Fourteen horses.
Rience shook the silver box again, cursed, and beat it against his pommel in anger. But the Xenophon remained silent. How enchanted.
‘Magical bullshit,’ commented Bonhart coldly. ‘It's broken – the cheap fairground trick.’
‘Or Vilgefortz is demonstrating how important we really are to him,’ added Stefan Skellen.
Rience raised his head and measured both of them with evil eyes. ‘Thanks to this fairground trick,’ he noted sharply, ‘we are on the track and will no longer lose her. Thanks to Master. Vilgefortz we know where the girl wants to go. We know where we are riding and what we are doing. I think that's a lot. Compared to what you’ve done over the past month.’
‘Don’t talk so much. Well, Boreas? What do the tracks say?’
Boreas Mun sat up and cleared his throat. ‘She was here an hour before us. Where she can, she tries to ride fast. But this is difficult terrain. Even on that incredible mare she isn’t more than five or six miles ahead of us.’
‘She travels to the lake so resolutely’, murmured Skellen. ‘Vilgefortz was right. And I did not believe him...’
‘I didn’t either,’ confessed Bonhart. ‘But only up to the moment yesterday
when the farmers confirmed that some magical building actually is on the shore of Lake Tarn Mira.’
The horses snorted and steam ran through their nostrils. The Owl looked over his left shoulder at Joanna Selbourne. He had not liked the facial expression on the telepath the past couple days. I’m getting worried, he thought. This chase has exhausted all of us, physically and mentally. It's time to stop. High time.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. He remembered the dream he had last night.
‘All right!’ He pulled himself together. ‘Enough talking. To the horses!’
Boreas Mun hung from the saddle, on the lookout for signs. It was not easy. The ground was frozen hard and the loose, quickly-windswept snow remained only in furrows and depressions. Boreas was looking for the shoe prints of the black mare. He had to be extremely careful that he did not lose the trail, especially now that the urgency of the silver box’s magical voice was silent and there was no more advice or information.
He was inhumanly exhausted. And worried. They had pursued the girl for nearly three weeks – since Saovine, since the massacre at Dun Dare. Almost three weeks in the saddle, always on the chase. And all this time neither the girl nor the black mare had showed weakness or slowed down.
Boreas Mun was on the lookout for signs.
His thoughts constantly returned to the dream he had last night. In the dream he was bogged down, sunken. The black surface had closed over his head as he sank to the bottom and cold water penetrated his throat and lungs. He had woken up soaked in a hot sweat – although all around there had been a true freezing chill.
That’s enough, he thought as he was hanging from the saddle, on the lookout for signs. It's high time to stop.
‘Master? Can you hear me? Master?’
The enchanted Xenophon was silent.
Rience’s shoulders shivered violently as he breathed into his clammy hands. The bitter cold bit his neck, back, and aching loins. Every movement brought pain to his mind. He had even lost the desire to curse.