The adept was silent and listened intently.
‘Do not pretend like you did not know,’ Nimue said sharply. ‘Everyone knows that the Lady of the Lake is possessed by an almost unhealthy obsession with the legend of Ciri. Everyone gossips about how it started out as a harmless hobby that gradually turned into something like a drug addiction, or even mania. There are a lot of truth in these rumours, my dear Condwiramurs, a lot of truth! And you, if you chose to assist will also falling to mania and addiction. Because I demand it. At least for the duration of your practice. Do you understand?’
The adept nodded.
‘You seem to understand,’ Nimue controlled her emotions. ‘But I’ll explain. Gradually. And when the time comes, you’ll know everything. But for now…’
She paused and looked out the window at the lake, at the black silhouette of the boat of the Fisher King, a contrast to the shimmering, golden surface of the lake.
‘For now, rest. Look around the gallery. Look in cabinets and shelves and you’ll find albums and cardboard prints, all related to the legend. In the library are all versions and transformations of the legend and almost all the scientific literature. Give them some time. Look, read, concentrate. I want you to get inspiration to dream. An anchor, as you say.’
‘I’ll do it. Lady Nimue?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘The two portraits. These hanging side by side…Are these not Ciri?’
‘There are no portraits of Ciri,’ Nimue patiently repeated. ‘Later artists portrayed her only in scenes, each according to his own imagination. As for the portraits, the one on the left is a variation on the chosen topic, it is the elf Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal, a person who the painter could not have known. The painters name is Lydia van Bredevoort. One of her surviving oils still hangs in the academy.’
‘I know. And the other portrait?’
Nimue looked for a long time at the portrait of a young girl with blond hair and sad eyes. She was dressed in a white dress with green sleeves.
‘Robin Anderida painted it,’ she said, she turned to look Condwiramurs straight in the eye. ‘And whom it portrays… That is for you the dreamer and oneiromacy to find out. Dream this. And tell me your dream.’
* * *
Master Robin Anderida saw the Emperor approaching first and bent low in a bow. Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, stood up, curtsied and with a quick gesture motioned for the girl sitting in the carved chair to do the same.
‘My greeting, ladies,’ Emhyr var Emreis nodded his head. ‘And my greetings to you, Master Robin. How is your work?’
Master Robin grunted embarrassed and bowed again, nervously wiping his fingers on his apron. Emhyr knew that the artist suffered from severe agoraphobia and was pathologically shy. But who cared about that. What mattered was how he painted.
As usual, when he was travelling on the road, the emperor was wearing an officer’s uniform of the “Impera” Guard Brigade – black armour and cloak embroidered with a silver salamander. He stepped closer and examined the portrait. First the portrait, then the model, a slender girl with blond hair and sad eyes. In a white dress with green sleeves and wearing a necklace with a single jewel.
‘Excellent,’ he said deliberately into space and in such a way that it was not possible to estimate what was praised. ‘Excellent, Master. Please continue, do not pay any attention to me. If you will allow me a moment, Countess.’
He walked a few steps towards the window forcing her to follow him.
‘I’m leaving,’ he said quietly. ‘Affairs of state. Thank you for your hospitality. And the princess. Well done, Stella. You really should be commended. Her too.’
Stella Congreve curtsied deeply and with grace.
‘The Imperial Majesty is exceedingly kind to us.’
‘Do not praise the day before sunset.’
‘Oh…’ she pursed her lips slightly. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is.’
‘What is it, Emhyr?’
‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘In ten days we resume the offensive in the North. It promises to be a difficult, very difficult war. Vattier de Rideaux reveals new conspiracies and plots directed against me. The reasons of state my force many different things.’
‘This girl is not guilty of anything.’
‘I said: reasons of state. Reasons of state have nothing to do with justice. At the end of the day…’
He waved a hand.
‘I want to talk to her. Alone. Come on, Princess. Faster. Closer. The Emperor commands.’
The girl curtsied deeply. Emhyr measured her with his eyes, looking back to that fateful audience in Loc Grim. He was full of praise, nay, even admiration for Stella Congreve, who, within the six months that had elapsed since then, had managed to transform a clumsy ugly duckling into a young aristocrat.
‘Leave us,’ he said. ‘Take a break, Master Robin, say, to clean your brushes. You, Countess, please wait in the anteroom. And you, Princess, follow me to the terrace.’
The wet snow that had fallen during the night had melted in the early morning sun, but the rooftops and towers of the caste Darn Rowan were still wet and blazing in the sun like fire.
Emhyr approached the balustrade. The girl, according to court etiquette kept one step behind him. With an impatient gesture, he beckoned her to come closer.
The Emperor was silent for a long time, he leaned with both hands on the railing, staring out at the hills and the evergreen yews that grew on them. Clearly distinguishable from the white rocky limestone recesses. Below them the river gleamed lick a silver river winding through the gorge.
The wind brought the scent of spring.
‘I seldom come here,’ Emhyr said. The girl remained silent.
‘I seldom come here,’ he repeated, turning away. ‘It is a beautiful and peaceful place. Beautiful surroundings… Do you agree?’
‘Yes… Imperial Majesty.’
‘You can smell spring in the air. Have you noticed?’
‘Yes, Imperial Majesty.’
From the lower courtyard they heard a noisy clatter disturbed by singing and the ringing of horseshoes. The escort, which had already received the order to depart, were in a hurry to get ready to leave. Emhyr remembered that among the guards was one who sang. Often regardless of the circumstances.
Look down on me regretfully
Eyes of azure
And give me graciously
Your charms
Remember me regretfully
In the dark night-time
Do not deny me graciously
The desire that dwells within you
‘A beautiful ballad,’ he said thoughtfully, passing his fingers over his heavy gold, imperial chain.
‘Beautiful. Imperial Majesty.’
Vattier assures me that he is already on Vilgefortz’s trail. That locating him will be a matter of days, weeks at most. The heads of traitors will fall and the true Ciri, Princess of Cintra will be delivered to Nilfgaard.
And before the genuine Cirilla, Princess of Cintra comes to Nilfgaard, I will have to do something with the double.
‘Lift up your head.’
She obeyed.
‘Do you have any wishes?’ he asked sternly. ‘Requests? Complaints?’
‘No, Imperial Majesty, I do not.’
‘Really? That’s interesting. No, but then I cannot command that you had. Raise your head, as befits a princess. Stella taught you courtly manners?’
‘Yes, Imperial Majesty.’
In fact, he thought, they trained her really well. Rience first and then Stella. They taught her the role – certainly under threat of torture and death. They warned her that the part that she would have to play before a ruthless and unforgiving audience. Before the terrible Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard.
‘What is your name?’ he asked sharply.
‘Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Cirilla Fiona …’
�
��Do not try my patience. Name!’
‘Cirilla …’ the girl’s voice broke like a reed stalk. ‘Fiona …’
‘Enough, by the Great Sun,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘Enough!’
In a breach of etiquette, she sniffed loudly. Her lips trembled but etiquette did not forbid it.
‘Calm down,’ he ordered, albeit in a low voice, almost soft. ‘What do you fear? Are you ashamed of your own name? Are you afraid to tell me? Does it raise unpleasant memories? I only ask because I would like to address you by your real name. But I must know what it is.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, her big eyes suddenly sparkled like emerald in the glow of candles. ‘Because it is a bland name, Imperial Majesty. A person who wears it is a nobody. As long as I’m Cirilla Fiona, I mean something … As long as …’
Her voice stuck in her throat so rapidly that she instinctively raised her hands to her neck, as if what she had on was not a necklace, but a choking garrotte. Emhyr continued to measure her with his eyes, still full of praise for Stella Congreve. At the same time he also felt anger. Unfounded anger and therefore even more terrible.
What I do want from this child, he thought, feeling the anger rising in him, as it boiled and seethed like soup in a cauldron. What I do want with this child whose …
‘Know that I had nothing to do with your kidnapping girl,’ he said sharply. ‘I had nothing to do with your kidnapping. I gave no such orders. I was fooled …’
He was angry with himself, aware that he was making a mistake. He should have ended this conversation long ago, ended it with grace, with power, menacing, like an emperor. It was necessary to forget about this girl with the green eyes. The girl did not exist. She was a double. An imitation. She did not even have a name. She was nobody. The emperor does not ask for forgiveness, does not apologise to someone who …
‘Forgive me,’ he said, the words sounded strange, unpleasantly sticking to his lips. ‘I made a mistake. Yes, it’s true, I am guilty of what happened to you. Guilty. But i give you my word that you will come to no danger, no injustice, no harm, no threat. Do not be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ she lifted her head and etiquette notwithstanding meet his gaze. Emhyr flinched, struck by the honesty and trust in her eyes. He immediately straightened, the proud and noble emperor once more.
‘Ask of me what you want.’
She looked at him again, and he involuntarily recalled countless time when he had bought in this way the peace of mind for the damage of his meanness. He secretly enjoyed selfishly paying the off so cheaply.
‘Ask of me what you want,’ he repeated and by the fact that he was tired, his voice became a little more human. ‘I will fulfil your every wish.’
Do not look at me, he thought. I cannot bear that look. People are apparently afraid to look at me. What do I have to fear?
Fuck Vattier and his reasons of state. If she asks for it, I’ll take her home to where she was abducted. Perhaps in a golden coach with six horses. She simply has to ask.
‘Ask of me what you want,’ he repeated.
‘I thank you, Imperial Majesty,’ said the girl, lowering her eyes. ‘His Imperial Majesty is very noble and generous. If i could ask for anything …’
‘Speak.’
‘I want to stay here. Here at Darn Rowan. At the home of Lady Stella.’
He was not surprised. He sensed something.
Tact prevented him from asking the questions that would be humiliating to them both.
‘I gave my word,’ he said coldly. ‘My will be done.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
‘I gave my word,’ he repeated, ‘and I will honour it. However, I think you chose wrong. You did not choose that which you desire. If you change your mind …’
‘I will not change,’ she said when it was clear that the emperor was not going to finish. ‘Why would I change my mind? I have chosen Lady Stella, I have chosen things that I have experienced in my life so little … A house, warmth, kindness … Love. You cannot make a mistake when choosing something like that.’
Poor, naive, little thing, thought Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd – The White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of his Enemies. It is such desires that are filled with the most terrible mistakes.
But something – perhaps long-forgotten memories, prevent the Emperor from saying it out loud.
* * *
‘Interesting,’ Nimue said, when she heard the story. A very interesting dream. Were there any others?’
‘Bah!’ Condwiramurs cut the top off of the boiled egg with a knife. ‘My head is still spinning after that parade! But this is normal. The first night in a new place always produces chaotic dreams. Do you know, Nimue for us, it is claimed that our talent lies in the fact that we have dreamlike visions. We do not use hypnosis or a trance; our visions are no different from other people’s dreams, in intensity, or abundance or content. Unlike us, and this is what our talent determines. We remember our dreams. Rarely do we forget what we dream of.’
‘Because you have atypical and typical activities in your endocrine glands,’ said the Lade of the Lake. ‘Your dreams are, and I’m trivialising a bit, nothing more than a body dedicated to endorphins. Like most innate magical talents, yours is also prosaically organic in origin. But why am I explaining something that you yourself already know. Do you remember any more dreams?’
‘A young boy,’ Condwiramurs frowned, ‘travelling with a pouch over his shoulder through fields. It is early spring, the fields are empty. Willows … along the edges of the road. Willows bent, hollow and deformed … and bare, yet still with leaves. The boy walks and looks around. It is dark. In the sky there are stars. One of them is moving. It is a comet. A reddish, flickering spark, diagonally crossing the sky …’
‘Good,’ Nimue rejoiced. ‘While I have no idea about who you were dreaming of, I can pinpoint the date. The Red Comet was visible for only six days in the spring of the year of the Peace of Cintra. More specifically, in the first days of March. In other dreams do you experience time stamps?’
‘My dreams,’ Condwiramurs snorted, taking solace in her egg, ‘are not an agricultural calendar. They do not have dated subtitles. But for the record, I also dreamed of the Battle of Brenna, probably because I looked for a time at the canvas by Nicholas Certosy in your gallery. And the date for the Battle of Brenna is also known. It was also in the same year as the comet, unless I am mistaken.’
‘No, you are not wrong. Was there something special about the dream of the battle?’
‘No. A chaos of horses, people and weapons. People screamed and killed. Someone, surely a mad man, shrieked – “The Eagles! The Eagles!”’
‘What else? You said that there was a whole parade of dreams.’
‘I do not remember…’ Condwiramurs paused.
Nimue smiled.
‘Well,’ the adept said, wincing hard, preventing the Lady of the Lake from delivering any mocking comments. ‘Yes, sometimes I forget. Nobody is perfect. I repeat, My dreams are visions, not some organised shelves in a library…’
‘I know,’ Nimue said. ‘We are not doing this to test your abilities as a dreamer, we are analysing the legend. The riddles and blank spaces. It goes pretty well for us, as in the first dream you’ve discovered who was the girl in the portrait, The double of Ciri who Vilgefortz attempted to deceive Emperor Emhyr…’
She stopped because into the kitchen came the Fisher King. He bowed, muttered and pulled out a loaf of bread, a bottle and a package wrapped in cloth from the cupboard. Then he turned to leave, not forgetting to bow and grunt.
‘He is lame,’ Nimue said with ill-concealed sympathy. ‘He was seriously wounded in a hunt with a wild boar which gored his leg. That’s why he spends so much time on the boat. With the oars and fishing he forgets about his injures. He is a very decent and good man. And I…’
Condwiramurs remained politely silent.
‘I need a man,’ said the little s
orceress impartially.
I also, thought the adept. The devil, as soon as I return to the Academy, I’ll let someone seduce me. Celibacy is food, but not for longer than one semester.
Nimue snorted.
‘If you’ve finished eating and dreaming, let’s go to the library.’
* * *
‘Let’s get back to your dream.’
Nimue opened a folder, she turned and took out several sheets of sepia wash drawings. Condwiramurs immediately recognised the captured scene.
‘The audience at Loc Grim?’
‘Of course. The double is present in the imperial palace. Emhyr pretending that he has been deceived and putting a good face on things. Here, look, the ambassadors of the Northern Kingdoms, for who his performance is played. And here we see the Nilfgaardian dukes. They feel humiliated, the emperor has rejected their noble daughters and so despised their offers of alliances. They stand aside, whispering, planning revenge, conspiracy, murder. The double stands before the throne with her head bowed. The artist has done this to emphasize her mystique, even her features are hidden under the veil on her face. This is basically everything we know about the false Ciri. No version of the legend mentions what happened to her later.’
‘It’s not hard to imagine,’ Condwiramurs said sadly, ‘that fate was not kind to the girl. When Emhyr got the original, and we all know that he acquired her, he got rid of the forgery. In the dream I sensed no tragedy, and in principle I should have felt something if… On the other hand, what I see in dreams is not necessarily the real truth. As with any person, my dreams reflect my desire, longing… And fears.’
‘I know.’
* * *
The discussed until lunchtime, looking through folders and bundles of prints. The fishing must have been good to the Fisher King because the lunch was grilled salmon. For dinner, too.
That night, Condwiramurs slept poorly. She had eaten too much.
She did not dream of anything. She was a little angry and embarrassed by it, but Nimue showed no concern.
‘We have time,’ she said. ‘Before us are many more nights.’
Andrzej Sapkowski - [Witcher 06] Page 3