They kept riding until they came to a large, beautiful lake full of crystal clear water, and in the middle of the lake, Arthur saw an arm clothed in white cloth holding a beautiful sword.
‘Behold, there is the sword of which I spoke,’ pointed Merlin.
Suddenly they saw a girl walking on the surface of the lake.
‘Who is that girl?’ asked Arthur.
‘That is the Lady of the Lake,’ said Merlin.
Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte Darthur
CHAPTER ONE
The lake was enchanted. About that there could be no doubt.
Firstly: it lay beside the mouth of the enchanted valley Cwm Pwcca, the mysterious valley perpetually shrouded by fog and famed for its magical properties and phenomena.
Secondly: one look was enough.
The surface of the water was a deep blue like a polished sapphire and smooth as a mirror. So much so that the peaks of the mountain Y Wyddfa that were reflected in it were more beautiful than those that loomed over the lake. From the water blew a refreshing coolness and the dignified silence was disturbed by nothing, not even the splashing of fish or the cries of a bird.
The knight shook off the impression. But rather than continue riding along the crest of the hill, he led his horse down to the lake. As if drawn by the magnetic force of a spell that slumbered there, deep down in the dark waters. The horse stepped timidly among the broken rocks, giving a snort indicating that he sensed the magical aura of the place.
Upon reaching the bank the knight dismounted. He took the stallion’s bridle and led him to where small waves disappeared among the coloured pebbles.
His armour rattled when he knelt. Startling fry and fish as vivid as tiny needles, he scooped water into his hands. He drank slowly and cautiously, the ice cold water numbed his tongue and lips and hurt his teeth.
When he bent down to collect water a second time a sound travelled over the surface of the lake. He raised his head. The horse whinnied, confirming that he also heard it.
He listened. No, it was not an illusion. What he heard was singing. A woman singing. Or rather a girl.
Like all knights he had been raised with bard tales of chivalry. In these tales a girl singing or calling was in nine cases out of ten, a lure. The knight who followed inevitably fell into an ambush. Often fatal.
But curiosity won out. The knight was only nineteen years old. He was very courageous and very foolish. He was famous for one and known for the other.
He checked that his sword was in its sheath, then led his horse and set off up the beach in the direction of the singing. He did not have to go far.
The shore was strewn with huge boulders, dark and polished to a bright shine, giant toys carelessly tossed here and forgotten about after completing the game. Some of the boulders were lying in the water of the lake, under the dark surface. Some rose above the surface and were licked by small waves, giving the impression of being ridges of a sleeping Leviathan. But most of them were lying on the shore, from the beach to the forest. Some were buried in the sand and were only partially sticking out, leaving the imagination to guess how big they really were.
The singing which the knight heard came from just behind those boulders. The singing girl remained invisible. He pulled his horse, holding him buy the muzzle and nostrils so as to stop him from neighing or snorting.
The girl’s clothes lay on one of the boulders lying in the shallows, flat like a table. The girl herself stood naked, waist-deep in the water and was washing, singing and splashing in the process. The knight listened to her singing but did not understand the words.
And no wonder.
The girl, he would be his head, was not human. This was demonstrated by the slender body, the strange hair colour and the voice. He was sure that if she turned around he would see big almond shaped eyes. And if she swept her ashen hair back he would see ears ending in points.
This was a resident of Faerie. A fairy. One of the Tylwyth Teg. One of those, which the Picts and the Irish called Sidhe Daoine, the People of the Hills. One of those that the Saxons called elves.
She stopped singing for a moment and immersed herself up to her neck, she panted and snarled and cursed. The knight, however was not fooled. Fairies, as everyone knew, knew how to swear like a human being. Some said as obscenely as a stable boy. And the curse was often a prelude to some malicious trick, which fairies were famous for – for example, increasing the size of someone’s nose to the size of a cucumber or reducing the size of someone masculinity to the size of a bean.
The knight had no interest in neither the first or the second option, so he tried to slip away quietly. He was betrayed by a horse. Not his own mount who he still held it’s nostrils so he was quiet and calm, but the horse belonging to the fairy, which the knight did not initially noticed between the boulders. Now the pitch-black mare stamped at the gravel and neighed in greeting. The knight’s stallion shook his head and replied politely. The echo reaching across the water.
The fairy came splashing out of the water, presenting the knight for a moment all her glory pleasant to the eye. She threw herself toward the rock on which lay her clothes. But instead of grasping clothes to decently cover herself with, the fairy grabbed a sword and pulled it from its scabbard with a hiss, clutching the steel with amazing skill. It lasted a brief moment, after which the fairy quickly knelt down, hiding in the water up to her nose and holding her arm with the sword in it above the surface of the water.
The knight blinked in amazement, dropped the reins and bent his knee, kneeling in the wet sand. He understood immediately who it was before him.
‘Hail, O Lady of the Lake,’ he breathed while stretching out his hands, ‘it is an honour, a tremendous honour… I accept your sword.’
‘I’d prefer if you rose and turned around,’ the Fairy poked her mouth above the water. ‘ Maybe stop staring? And let me get dressed?’
He obeyed.
He heard her leaving the water and the rustling of clothes and the sound of her swearing softly as she pulled them onto her wet body. He busied himself staring at the black mare, its coat soft and shiny like the skin of a mole. It was definitely of noble blood and fast like the wind. It was undoubtedly a magic horse, and also an inhabitant of Faerie, as well as its owner.
‘You can turn around.’
‘Lady of the Lake…’
‘And introduce yourself.’
‘I am Galahad, of Caer Benice. A knight of King Arthur, Lord of Camelot, ruler of the Kingdom of Summer, as well as Dumnonia, Dyfeint, Powys, Dyfed …’
‘And Temeria?’ she interrupted. ‘Redania. Rivia, Aedirn? Nilfgaard? Would you say any of these names?’
‘No. I have never heard of them.’
She shrugged her shoulders. In her hand, besides the sword she was holding boots and a shirt, washed and wrung out.
‘I thought so. What day is it?’
‘It is,’ he replied with surprise, ‘the second full moon after Beltane … Lady …’
‘Ciri,’ she said unthinkingly, twisting her shoulders to better position the clothes drying on her skin. She spoke with a strange accent. Her eyes were green and huge …
She instinctively brushed back her wet hair and the knight sighed involuntary. Not only because her ear was normal, human and in no way elven. Her cheek was marred by a huge, ugly scar. She had been injured. But how can you injure a fairy?
She noticed his astonished gaze, she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose.
‘A scar, yes!’ she said with her striking accent. ‘Why do you look so frightened? Is it such an uncommon thing for a knight, a scar? Or is it so ugly?’
H
e slowly, with both hands pulled down the hood of his chain mail and passed his hands through his hair.
‘Certainly not an uncommon thing for a knight,’ he said with youthful pride, demonstrating a barely healed scar running from his temple to his jaw. ‘And nasty are the scars of honour. I am Galahad, son of Lancelot du Lac and Elaine, daughter of King Pelles, Lord of Caer Benic. This wound was caused to me by Breunis the Cruel, an undignified oppressor of women, even though I beat him in a fair duel. Truly, I am honoured to take this sword from your hand, Lady of the Lake …’
‘What?’
‘The sword. I am willing to accept it.’
‘This is my sword. I don’t let anyone touch it.’
‘But …’
‘But what?’
‘The Lady of the Lake has always … Always emerges from the water and gives her sword.’
She was silent for some time.
‘I understand,’ she said finally. ‘Well, another country, another custom. I’m sorry, Galahad or whatever your name is, but apparently you have not found the lady of which you have heard. I am not giving away anything. Or letting anything be taken. Let’s be clear.’
‘But yet,’ he dared to say, ‘you’ve come from the Faerie, Lady, is it so?’
‘I come,’ she said after a moment, her green eyes seemed to stare into the abyss of space and time. ‘I come from Rivia, and from the city of the same name. Next to the lake Loc Eskalott. I came her on a boat. It was foggy. I could not see the edges. I heard neighing. Kelpie… My mare had followed me.’
She spread her wet shirt out on a stone. The knight gave a start again. The shirt was washed, but not very thoroughly. He could still see traces of blood.
‘The river current brought me here,’ continued the girl, without seeing that he had noticed or pretending not to see. ‘The river current and the magic of the unicorn… What do you call this lake?’
‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘In Gwynedd there are many lakes…’
‘In Gwynedd?’
‘Of course. Those are the mountains, Y Wyddfa. If you keep them to your left and if you go through the forest for two days you’ll arrive at Dinas Dinlleu and beyond that Caer Dathal. And the river… The nearest river…’
‘It’s not important what the nearest river is. Do you have anything to eat, Galahad? I’m starving. Why are you looking at me like that? Are you afraid that I’ll disappear? That I’ll fly off with your sausage and biscuits? Don’t be afraid. In my world I have created enough mess and I won’t be going back for some time. So I will stay in yours for a time. In a world in which I search in vain for the Dragon or the Seven Goats in the night sky. Where we are now in the second full moon after Belleteyn and Belleteyn is pronounced Beltane. Why do you stare at me, I ask you?’
‘I did not know that fairies eat.’
‘Fairies, sorceresses and elves. They all eat. They drink. And so on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It does not matter.’
The longer he studied her, the more she lost her magical aura and became more humane and ordinary – almost mundane. He knew, however, that such was not the case, it could not be. A plain, ordinary girl would never have been met alone at the foot of Y Wyddfa, on the edge of Cwm Pwcca, bathing naked in a mountain lake and washing a blood-stained shirt. No matter how the girl looked, in no case could she be an earthly creature. Despite knowing this, Galahad could look calmly and without superstitious fear at her mouse coloured hair, which to his amazement now that it was dry, was traversed by shiny streaks of grey. He could now look at her slender hands, her little nose, her pale lips her male clothing with a strange cut, made with an extremely delicate fabric. And her sword, with its strange design and ornaments, but did not seem like an ornament for parades. And her bare feet, covered with the dry sand of the beach.
‘To be clear,’ she spoke, wiping one foot with the other, ‘I’m not a fairy or an elf. A sorceress, that is, a fairy, I’m … a little unusual. Ehh, I’m not.’
‘I’m sorry, really.’
‘Why are you sorry?’
‘They say …’ he blushed and stammered. ‘They say that fairies, if they happen to encounter a young man, they lead them to Elfland and there … Under the bushes in a forest, on a bed of moss, show them …’
‘I understand,’ she looked at him quickly and firmly bit the sausage. ‘In regards to the Land of the Elves,’ she said swallowing, ‘I fled there some time ago and I’m in no hurry to return. With regards to the bed of moss … Indeed, Galahad, you have not found the lady that was needed. Nevertheless, thank you for your interest.’
‘Lady! I did not mean to offend you …’
‘Do not apologise.’
‘It’s because you are so beautiful.’
‘ I thank you again. But this changes nothing.’
They were silent for a while. It was hot. The sun at it zenith warmed the stones nicely. A slight breeze wrinkled the surface of the lake.
‘What does it mean …’ Galahad suddenly said in a strangely exalted voice. ‘What does it mean, a spear with bloody tip? What does it mean and why does the King suffer so, from a pierced thigh? What does a lady in white carrying a grail a silver cup …’
‘Are you feeling alright?’ she interrupted.
‘I’m just asking.’
‘I do not understand your question. Is it a password? A signal with which to recognise initiates? Explain it to me.’
‘I cannot explain better.’
‘Then why do you ask?’
‘Because …’ he said, fidgeting. ‘Just … One of us did not ask we he had the opportunity. Either he could not find the words or her was ashamed … He did not ask and that is why many misfortunes have occurred. So now I always ask. Just in case.’
* * *
‘Are there any wizards in this world? You know, those dealing in magic. Mages. Seers.’
‘There is Merlin. Or Morgana. But Morgana is evil.’
‘And Merlin?’
‘About half.’
‘Do you know where to find him?’
‘Of course. In Camelot. In the court of King Arthur. I’m headed there.’
‘Is it far?’
‘From here to Powys, to the river Hafen, then up the Hafen to Glevum. From there it is near to the plains near the Kingdom of Summer. All in all about ten days riding.’
‘Too far.’
‘You can,’ he stammered, ‘shorten the journey by going through Cwm Pwcca. But it is an enchanted valley. It is horrible. There live the Y Dynan Bach Teg, evil dwarves …’
‘Do you only wear your sword for show?’
‘And can a sword do anything against magic?’
‘Can do, can do, do not doubt. I’m a witcher. Have you heard of them? Eh, of course you haven’t heard. And I’m not afraid of dwarves. I have many friends among the dwarves.’
Sure, he thought.
* * *
‘Lady of the Lake?’
‘My name is Ciri. Do not call me Lady of the Lake. It brings back unpleasant memories, painful, harmful. So they called me in the Land of … What did you call this land?’
‘Faerie. Or as the Druids say: Annwn. Or Elfland by the Saxons.’
‘Elfland …’ she covered her shoulders with a chequered blanket. ‘I was there, you know? I entered the Tower of the Swallow and bam, I was among the elves. And that’s what they called me. Lady of the Lake. I even liked it at first. It flattered me. Until I realise that in that land, in that tower over the lake, I was no lady, but a prisoner.’
‘Is that,’ he could not hide his curiosity, ‘where you stained your shirt with blood?’
She paused for a long time.
‘No,’ she said at last, and her voice it seemed was trembling slightly. ‘Not there. You have keen eyes. In short, you cannot escape the truth by hiding your head in the sand … Yes, Galahad. I’m often covering in blood in recent times. With the blood of the enemies I’ve killed. And with the blood of friends who I
tried to save … and who died in my arms … Why do you look at me like that?’
‘I do not know if you are a goddess or a mortal woman. Or a supernatural being born on earth …’
‘Get to the point if you please.’
‘I wish,’ Galahad’s eyes flared, ‘to hear thy story. Would you tell me, O Lady?’
‘It is long.’
‘We have time.’
‘And it does not end happily.’
‘I do not believe that.’
‘Why?’
‘You were singing as you bathed in the lake.’
‘You are observant,’ she turned her head, pursed her lips and a wrinkled marred her face suddenly. ‘Yes, observant, But very innocent.’
‘Tell me thy story. Please.’
‘Well, if you want,’ she sighed. ‘I will tell.’
She sat down comfortably. The horses walked along the edge of the forest, grazing on grasses and herbs.
‘From the beginning,’ Galahad prompted. ‘From the very beginning …’
‘More and more, it seems to me’ she said after a moment, tightly wrapping the plaid blanket around her, ‘my story actually has no beginning. I’m not even sure whether it has actually ended. Know that the past and the present intermingle terribly. There was an elf who told me that it is like a snake that bites it own tail. This snake, so you know, is called Uroboros. And if he bites his own tail it means the circle is closed. In any moment of time is hidden the past, present and future. In any moment of time lies eternity. Do you understand?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Truly, I say, who believes in dreams is like one who wants to catch the wind or is grasping at shadows. Fooled by deceptive images in a curved mirror that lies or twists the truth like a false woman. It is a fool indeed who gives faith to the dream and walks the path of deception.
But even he who has few dreams should not put faith in them and wisely does not. Why, if dreams would not have any meaning, would the gods gift us the ability to dream?
The wisdom of the prophet Lebioda, 34; 1
Is all that we see or seem
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 1