The Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  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.’

  ***

  The tower of Inis Vitre had several bathrooms, truly luxurious, plush, lined with marble and gleaming with brass, it was heated by pipes whose furnace was located somewhere in the basement. Condwiramurs could laze in the bath for hours, but today she met Nimue in the

  sauna, a small log cabin with a landing that went out into the lake. They sat together on a bench in the steam rising from red-hot stones washed down with water, flicking themselves with birch brushes. Salty sweat ran down into their eyes.

  ‘If I understand correctly,’ Condwiramurs wiped her face, ‘the end result of my experience on Inis Vitre should be to answer all the riddles and blank spaces in the legend of the Sorceress and the Witcher?’

  ‘You are correct.’

  ‘By day, by examining images and discussions, it should prepare me for the night, when I have the power to dream, about that event that is now completely forgotten and what really happened? ‘

  This time Nimue did not consider it necessary to confirm this. She got up and poured water from a bucket onto the stones. The hot steam took their breath away for a moment. The rest of the bucket of water, Nimue poured on herself. Condwiramurs admired her figure. Thought tiny, the sorceress was built extraordinarily proportionately. The body and supple skin of the sorceress could envy many a young girl. Condwiramurs was only twenty-four and she envied her.

  ‘But even if I dream of something,’ she continued, wiping her sweaty face again, ‘how can I be sure that what I dreamed was the true version? I certainly do not know...’

  ‘Let’s halt this discussion for a while,’ cut off Nimue. ‘We go out. I’m already tired of sitting in this slow cooker. Let’s refresh. And then we’ll talk.’

  As it was part of the ritual. They ran out of the sauna, their bare feet pattering on the boards of the landing and with a loud cry jumped into the cold water. Once they had dipped, they swam to the landing and wrung out their hair.

  The Fisher King, alarmed by the splashing and yelling, looked back from his boat, he shaded his eyes with his hand, then immediately turned around and devoted himself to his fishing tackle. Condwiramurs considered this behavior offensive and reprehensible. Her opinion of the Fisher King had greatly increased when she noticed the time that he did not spend fishing he spent reading. He walked with a book, even to the bathroom, and it was nothing less than Speculum Aureum, a work both profound and intellectually challenging. So if it was true that in her early days on Inis Vitre, Condwiramurs was somewhat astonished by the inclinations of Nimue, they had now stopped. It was clear that the Fisher King was an uncouth lout only in appearance. Apparently, such behavior was considered a secure mask.

  Nevertheless, thought Condwiramurs, it is an unforgivable insult and an affront turning towards this rods and bait when there were two women parading naked, with bodies worthy of nymphs, from which the eyes should not be able to break away.

  ‘If I dream something,’ she returned to the subject at hand as she wiped her breasts with a towel, ‘what guarantee do we have that it is the true version? I know all the literary versions of the legend, from Dandelion’s Half a Century of Poetry, to Andre Ravix’s Lady of the Lake. I know all of Reverend Jarre’s, various scientific treatises on the popular editions that I will not even mention. All of these readings have left a trace, had an effect, I am not able to eliminate this from my dreams. Is there a chance to break through the fiction to dream the truth?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘How high?’

  ‘The same as,’ Nimue nodded towards the boat on the lake, ‘which the Fisher King has. You see how he tirelessly checks his hooks. They anchor weeds, roots, submerged stumps, trunks, old shoes and the drowned devil knows what else. But from time to time he catches something.’

  ‘So happy fishing then,’ Condwiramurs sighed and began to dress. ‘Let us set the bait and start fishing. Look for the real version of the legend inside the upholstery and lining of an old

  trunk and hope to find a false bottom. And what if there is no false bottom? With all due respect, Nimue, but we are not the first in this fishery. What are the chances that some details escaped the attention of historians and the researchers who fished in front of us? Do we even have a minnow left?’

  ‘They left,’ Nimue said with conviction, combing her hair, ‘Blank spaces filled with rhetoric and fabrications. Or wrapped in silence.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘For example, the witcher’s winter stay in Toussaint. All version of the legend dispose of this episode with a short sentence: “The heroes spent the winter in Toussaint.” Even Dandelion, who devoted two chapters to his adventures in the Duchy, is surprising enigmatic in terms of the witcher. Is it not worth it to find out what happened this winter? After escaping from Belhaven, and meeting with the elf Avallac’h in the underground complex of Tir ná Bea Arainne? After the skirmish in Caed Myrkvid and the adventure of the Druids? What did the witcher do in Toussaint from October through to January?’

  ‘What did he do? Hibernated!’ snorted the adept. ‘Before the spring thaw, he would not be able to cross the mountain passes, and so he spent the winter bored. It is not surprising that later writers relieved piece of boredom with a terse: “Winter passed by.” But if you need, I’ll try to dream something. Do we have a picture or a drawing?’

  Nimue smiled.

  ‘We have lots of pictures.’

  The rock painting represented a hunting scene. Lean casual strokes depicted little men carrying bows and spears hunting a large buffalo. The buffalo was purple, striped like a tiger and above its curved horns hung something that resembled a dragonfly.

  ‘This,’ Regis said nodding his head, ‘is the work of the elf Avallac’h. The elf that knew much.’

  ‘Yes,’ Geralt confirmed dryly. ‘This is his painting.’

  ‘The problem is that we have thoroughly explored the caves and there is no trace of either elves or any other creatures you mentioned.’

  ‘They were here. Now they are hiding. Or gone.’

  ‘This is an indisputable fact. Do not forget, you were only awarded the audience through the intercession of the flaminica. Apparently it was concluded that one hearing was enough. After the flaminica categorically refused to cooperate, I really do not know what else you can do. We have been wandering around these caves all day. I‘m afraid there is no point’

  ‘Me, too,’ said the witcher bitterly. ‘I cannot resist such an impression. I’ve never understood the elves. But at least now I know why most human have no sympathy for elves. Because it is hard to shake the feeling that they are mocking us. In everything that they do, what they say, what they think, elves make a mockery of us and scoff.’

  ‘The anthropomorphism is speaking through you.’

  ‘Maybe a little. But the impression remains.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Return to Caed Myrkvid, to see Cahir, who no doubt has had his scalp wound healed by the Druids. Then we get on the horses and take full advantage of the invitation of Countess Anna Henrietta . Do not look at me like that vampire, Milva has broken ribs, Cahir a broken head, and rest in Toussaint will benefit both of them. And we will also have to remove Dandelion from the mess he has gotten into, because I fear he has gotten into a good one.’

  ‘Well,’ sighed Regis. ‘Have it your way. I’ll have to avoid mirrors and dogs and will have to beware of sorcerers and telepaths... And if I’m still exposed, I’m counting on you.’

  ‘You can count on me,’ Geralt said seriously. ‘I’m not in the habit of leaving a friend in need.’

  The vampire smile and because they were alone, he did not hid his fangs.

  ‘Friend?’

  ‘The anthropomorphism speaks through my
mouth. Come on, let’s get out of this cave, my friend. Because here we will find only rheumatism.’

  ‘Probably. Unless... Geralt? From what you saw, the Elven necropolis of Tir ná Bea Arainne is behind this wall. We could get there if... you know. If we broke through. Have you thought about this?’

  ‘No. I had not thought of it.’

  The Fisher King had again prospered because there was lake trout for dinner again. The fish was so delicious that the lesson went out the window. Again Condwiramurs ate too much.

  Condwiramurs belched. It is time to sleep, she though, when she caught herself for the second time mechanically turning the pages of a book without perceiving the content. It is time to dream.

  She yawned and put down her book. She rearranged the pillows from a reading position to resting. With a spell she put out the lamp. The chamber was immediately plunged into darkness as thick as molasses. The heavy velour curtains were fully drawn, as the adept discovered, it is best to dream in total darkness. What to choose? She thought, stretching between the sheets. Go with the current and dream or try and anchor?

  Despite their proud statements, Dreamers did not remember half of their prophetic dreams, a significant portion of them remained in the minds of the oneiromancers as gibberish images, changing colors and shapes like a kaleidoscope - a child’s toy with mirrors and glass. If the dreamlike visions were stripped of all pretence of order and meaning, then they could safely ignore them. According to the rules: “If I do not remember it, it means, it was not worth remembering”. In the jargon of the dreamers these dreams are called “lemons”.

  Worse and a somewhat embarrassing affair are “ghost” dreams, from which the dreamer only remembers fragments, and very short snippets of events, after which the next morning is left only a vague feeling of a messaged received. If the “ghost” is repeated several times, it is certain that it is a dream which is important for some reason. Then the dreamer, through concentration and autosuggestion tries to force the dream again, this time a more specific “ghost”. The best result are to force oneself to dream again immediately after waking up – called “hooking”. If the dream does not produce a “hook” they try and produce a vision during one of the following session by concentration and meditation prior to going to sleep. Such pressure programming is called “anchoring”.

  After twelve nights on the island, Condwiramurs already had three lists of dreams. There was a list worthy of pride, a list of “ghosts” that she had “hooked” or “anchored” successfully. Among them there was the dream of the rebellion on the Island of Thanedd and the journey of the witcher and his companions in a blizzard in the pass of Malheur, and the spring downpours softening the roads in the Sudoth valley. There was also a list that Nimue had recognized as a list of failures, dreams that despite all their efforts remained an enigma. And there was also a working list, a list of dreams waiting their turn.

  And there was a dream, strange but very nice that was coming back in bits and pieces in elusive sounds and silky touches.

  A nice, pleasant dream.

  Well, thought Condwiramurs, closing her eyes. Let it be.

  ‘I think I know what the witcher did during the winter in Toussaint.’

  ‘Well, well,’ Nimue looked over the edge of the leather-bound grimoire that she was reading. ‘So you finally dreamed something?’

  ‘Of course’ Condwiramurs said boastfully, ‘I dreamed! Of the Witcher Geralt and a woman with short, black hair and green eyes. I do not know who it could be. Maybe this Countess, Dandelion writes about in his memoirs?’

  ‘You must not have read carefully,’ the sorceress said somewhat coolly. ‘Dandelion described Countess Anarietta in detail and all sources confirm that her hair was, quote “Chestnut colored and truly shining like a halo of gold.”’

  ‘So it was not her,’ admitted the adept. ‘My woman had black hair. Like coal. And the dream was… hummm… interesting.’

  ‘I’m eagerly listening.’

  ‘They were talking together. But it was not an ordinary conversation.’

  ‘What was so strange?’

  ‘Most of the time her legs where on his shoulders.’

  ‘Tell me, Geralt, do you believe in love at first sight?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I believe.’

  ‘Now I know why we are together. Opposites attract.’

  ‘Do not be cynical.’

  ‘Why? Cynicism reportedly shows intelligence.’

  ‘That’s not true. Cynicism, for all its aura of pseudo intelligence is disgustingly hypocritical and insincere. While we’re at it... Tell me, witcher, what do you most love about me?’

  ‘This.’

  ‘You go from cynicism to triviality and banality. Try again.’

  ‘What I most love about you is your reason, your intelligence and inner depth, your independence and freedom, your...’

  ‘I do not understand where you get so much sarcasm.’

  ‘It was not sarcasm, it was a joke.’

  ‘I cannot stand such jokes. Especially at the wrong time. Everything, my dear, has its time, and under the sky all are assigned their time. There is a time to be silent and a time to talk, a time to weep and a time to laugh, time to sow and a time to pick, sorry, collect, a time for jokes and a time for seriousness...’

  ‘A time to touch and a time to refrain?’

  ‘Oh, do not take it so seriously! Assume instead that it is a time for compliments. Loving without the compliments becomes just mindless activities to satisfy physical needs. Tell me, compliments!’

  ‘From the Buina to the Yaruga, there is no one with such a beautiful ass as yours.’

  ‘Now you go and compare me to barbaric rivers from the north that I do not know. Leaving aside the quality of your metaphor, could you have not said from the Velda to the Alba? Or from the Alba to Sansretour?’

  ‘I’ve never been to the Alba. I try to avoid forms of flirting that I cannot back up with factual experience.’

  ‘Oh, really? So I guess that you have seen and experienced so many asses, that you are able to judge? What, white-haired one? How many women have you had before me? Well? I asked you a question, witcher! Put away those hand, you will not escape having to answer. How many women did you have before me?’

  ‘None. You’re the first.’

  ‘Finally!’

  Nimue had already spent a long time contemplating a picture that appeared in a subtle chiaroscuro of ten women sitting around a table.

  ‘Too bad we do not know that they really looked like.’ She said at last.

  ‘The great teachers?’ Condwiramurs snorted. ‘there are dozens of portraits! Only in Aretuza itself...’

  ‘I said: really.’ Interrupted Nimue. ‘I did not mean embellished imaginations based on other embellished imaginations. Do not forget, there was a time of destruction of the images of sorceresses. And the same of sorceresses. Then came the era of propaganda, the teachers had to build up the appearance of respect, admiration and reverent fear. Then from the reunion of the Lodge came oaths and convents, pictures and paintings recording those present at the table were often wonderful and alluring women. But there are no authentic portraits. Except for two. The portrait of Margarita Laux-Antille which hangs in Aretuza, on the island of Thanedd and was by a miracle saved from fire. And a picture of Síle de Tansarville in Ensenada in the palace of Lan Exeter.’

  ‘And what of Francesca Findabair’s image by an unknown elvish painter, hanging in the gallery in Vengerberg?’

  ‘A fake. When the Gate opened and the elves left, they took with them or destroyed all their works of art and left not a single image. We do not know if the Daisy of the Valley was really as beautiful as they say. We do not know the appearance of Ida Emean. And the images of the Sorceress of Nilfgaard were destroyed thoroughly and systematically, we have no idea of the true appearance of Assire car Anahid or Fringilla Vigo.’

  ‘Let us assume,’ sighed Condwiramurs, ‘that they looked as th
ey were later portrayed. Dignified, noble, good, wise, honest and generous. And beautiful, dazzlingly beautiful... Let us assume that. Then it is somehow easier to live.’

  The daily tasks on Inis Vitre gradually fell into a dull routine. The analyst of dreams started after breakfast and usually lasted until noon. Before lunch, Condwiramurs went for a walk, but walks soon became boring. No wonder, in an hour it was possible to circle the island twice and look at things as interesting as rocks, dwarf pines, sand, clams and sea gulls.

  After lunch and a long nap, they began discussions, reviewing books, scrolls and manuscripts, viewing pictures, images and maps. And long, protracted disputes in the night on the relationship between legend and truth.

  And then at night came the dreams. Different dreams. Celibacy began to be noticed. Instead of dreams of the enigma of the legend of the witcher, Condwiramurs dreamed of the

  Fisher King in a variety of situations from the non-erotic to the extremely erotic. In the extremely non-erotic dreams the Fisher King dragged her behind the boat tied to a rope. He rowed slowly and lazily, so she sank into the lake, swallowing water and she felt a terrible fear, because she felt something rising from the bottom, something huge and hungry, something that wanted to swallow the bait, which she was. When it seemed the something was about to catch her, the Fisher King pulled powerfully on the oars, the rope tighten and she was pulled away from the jaws of the unseen predator. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, then she awoke.

  In her undoubtedly erotic dreams she was kneeling on the rickety boat, clinging to the rail and the Fisher King held her around the neck from behind as he fucked her enthusiastically, grunting, spitting and growling the whole time. Apart from the physical pleasure, Condwiramurs felt an apprehension that chilled her bowels: what if Nimue caught them? Suddenly in the water of the lake she saw the wobbling, threatening face of the little sorceress... she woke up, drenched in sweat.