‘I will not allow it.’
Farewell, Ciri. Farewell, Swallow.
‘Goodbye, old crow.’
The next door. Brightness, dazzling brightness. And the pervasive scent of flowers.
The mist covering the lake, light as down, was quickly blown away by the wind. The surface of the water was smooth as a mirror and white flowers shone on the green carpet of the shallow sea lilies.
The banks drowned in greenery and flowers.
It was warm.
It was spring.
Ciri was not surprised. How could she wonder at anything now? Because now, everything was possible. November, ice, snow, frozen ground, the pile of stones on the passing of bare stems hillock – there it was. But here, the willowy basalt tower with the serrated peaks reflected in the green, lily-strewn waters of the lake. This was May, because only in May did the wild rose and black cherry blossom.
Nearby, someone was playing on a reed pipe or a flute, a fun, jumping little tune.
Standing on the shore of the lake, with their front feet in the water, were two snow-white horses. Kelpie snorted and struck her hoof on the rocks. As the horses lifted their heads and the water dripped from their nostrils, and Ciri sighed loudly.
Because they were not horses, but unicorns.
Ciri was not surprised. She had sighed with admiration, not with astonishment.
The melody could be heard more clearly now, it came from behind the cherry bushes clustered with white flower. Kelpie went in that direction by herself, without any invitation. Ciri swallowed then followed. Both unicorns, motionless as statues, stared at her. They reflected on the smooth water surface.
Behind the cherry bushes, a light-haired elf with a triangular face and huge, almond-shaped eyes sat on a round stone. He was playing, his fingers danced over the holes of the flute. Although he noticed Ciri and Kelpie, although he looked at them, he did not stop playing.
The small, fragrant white flowers and the black cherries had an intense smell such as Ciri had never experienced in her life. No wonder, she thought soberly: In the world where I've lived, the cherries just smell different.
In that world, everything is different.
The elf finished the tune with a long high trill, put down the flute, and stood up.
‘What took you so long?’ He asked, smiling. ‘What kept you?’
Also by Andrzej Sapkowski
The Last Wish
Blood of Elves
Time of Contempt
Baptism of Fire
Sword of Destiny
The Tower of the Swallow
Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Also by Andrzej Sapkowski
Andrzej Sapkowski, The Tower of the Swallow
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