The Lady of the Lake

by Andrzej Sapkowski

  Yennefer’s lips, broken, torn, move without making a sound, shedding blood. Her violet eyes burn within her haggard face, her matted black hair falls around her dirty face. In a hole in the floor is a stinking puddle, there are rats everywhere. The walls of stone are cold. Chains bind her wrists and ankles…

  Yennefer’s fingers are a mass of clotted blood.

  ‘Mother! What have they done?’

  Marble stairs led down. Three flights of stairs.

  Va 'esse deireádh aep eigean… Something ends…What?

  Stairs. Below, a fire burns in braziers. Burning tapestries.

  Come on, Geralt says. Down the stairs. We have to. Yes you have to. There is no other way. Only those stairs. I want to see the sky.

  His lips do not move. They are bruised and stained with blood. Blood, blood everywhere… The stairs, covered in blood…

  ‘There is no other way. There isn’t, Star Eyes.’

  ‘How? How can I help them? I am in another world? I am a prisoner! I cannot do anything!’

  ‘No one can imprison you. Everything has already been covered,’ say Vysogota. ‘ Even this. Look at your feet.’

  Ciri sees with horror that she is standing in a sea of bones. Among skulls, tibias and bones.

  ‘Only you can prevent this from happening, Star Eyes.’

  Vysogota straightens up. Behind him, winter and snow. The wind blows and whistles.

  Before her, in a blizzard, on a horse is Geralt. Ciri knows it, But his head is covered in a fur cap and a woolen scarf covers his face. Behind him in the blizzard, loom other riders, their lines are blurred, so thickly bundled that it is impossible to discern what they are.

  Geralt looks straight at her. But he does not see her. Snow pours into his eyes.

  ‘Geralt! It’s me! Here!’

  He does not see her. Cannot hear her over the howling of the storm.

  ‘Geraaaalt!’

  Sheep, Geralt says. It was probably just sheep. Let’s go back. The riders disappear, melting into the falling snow.

  ‘Geraaaaaalt! Noooooo!’

  She woke up.

  In the morning she went straight to the stable, without breakfast. She did not want to run into Avallac’h, did not want to talk to him. She wanted to escape questioning, curious,

  intrusive elves and other their glances. Unlike any other matter they were clearly not indifferent regarding the royal bedchamber. Elves did not know how to hide their curiosity and Ciri had no doubt that the palace walls had ears.

  She found Kelpie in her stall and brought up her saddle and harness. Before she could start saddling the mare, the little grey elves appeared two heads shorter than the Aen Elle. With smiles and bows they went to work.

  ‘Thanks you,’ she said. ‘I could have done it myself, but thank you. You are nice.’

  The closest elf smiled and Ciri flinched. In her smile she saw canine teeth.

  She approached her in a hurry, when Ciri almost fell down in shock. She brushed the hair from the servants ear. An ear that did not end in a point.

  ‘You’re a human!’

  The servant fell to her knees on the swept floor. All the others knelt too. Bowing their heads. Expecting punishment.

  ‘I…’ Ciri began, while fingering the reins. ‘I…’

  She didn’t know what to say. The servants were still kneeling. The horses snorted and stamped restlessly in the stables.

  Even outside in the saddle at a trot she could not muster any ideas. Human females. As maids, servants, but no matter. The main thing was that even in this world there are Dh’oine…

  Human, she corrected herself. I think as they do.

  She was jarred from her thoughts by Kelpie’s loud whinny. She lifted her head and saw Eredin. He sat on his dark brown stallion, now free from his demonic combat gear. The rider, however, wore chainmail under his red jacket.

  The stallion screamed a hoarsely welcome, shook his head and grinned at Kelpie with yellow teeth. Kelpie, true to the principle that there are some issues that ventilate with the lords, not the servants, tries to put her teeth into the elf’s thigh.

  Ciri held the reins tightly.

  ‘Be careful,’ she warned. ‘Keep your distance. My mare does not like strangers. And she bites.’

  ‘Those that bite,’ he measure her with a supercilious look, ‘should be curried with an iron brush. Until they bleed. This is the proven method for treating defiance. Not just for mares.’

  He jerked his reins so hard and violently, the horse grunted and backed away a few steps, from his mouth trickled foam.

  ‘What’s with the chainmail?’ the girl measured the elf in return. ‘Are you going to war?’

  ‘On the contrary, I long for peace. You mares vices aside, does it have any virtues?’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Maybe speed. We’ll have a race?’

  ‘If you want, why not,’ she stood in the stirrups. ‘There, in the direction of those cromlechs…’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘Not that way.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It is forbidden ground.’

  ‘To everyone, of course.’

  ‘Not for everyone, of course. Your company, Swallow, is too valuable to us to risk that you’ll lose it. On your initiative or at the initiative of others.’

  ‘On the initiative of others? You’re not thinking about unicorns?’

  ‘I do not want to bore you with what I think. Nor be frustrated by the fact that you would not be able to understand my thoughts.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I know that you do not understand. Evolution has not provided you with a sufficiently developed brain to understand. Listen, if you want to race, then I suggest we do so along the river. That way. To Porphyry Bridge, the third downstream, then to the other shore and further downstream to the mouth of the river. Ready?’

  ‘Always.’

  With a cry, the elf spurred the stallion, which took off like a hurricane, before Kelpie had even started, they had the advantage. But, though the earth was trembling in its wake, the stallion could not match Kelpie. The mare overtook him, just before reaching the bridge. The bridge was narrow. Eredin gave a cry and the stallion, incredibly, accelerated. Ciri immediately grasped what was going on. The bridge would not for anything in the world, fit two horses. One had to slow down.

  Ciri had no intention of slowing down. She clung to the mane and Kelpie pulled forward like an arrow. Ciri brushed the stirrup of the elf and flew onto the bridge. Eredin’s stallion screamed, reared up and struck an alabaster figure, it fell from its pedestal and smashed into pieces.

  Ciri, giggling like a ghost, galloped across the bridge, without looking back.

  At the mouth of the river she dismounted and waited.

  He came at last, trotting, calmly, with a smile.

  ‘My appreciation,’ he said, dismounting, ‘for the mare and its rider.’

  Although proud as a peacock, she careless spat.

  ‘Ah! You should think about being combed with iron until you bleed.’

  ‘Unless you have consent,’ he smiled ambiguously. ‘There are mares who like strong caresses.’

  ‘Quite recently,’ she looked at him defiantly, ‘you likened me to a pile of manure. And now you’re talking about caresses?’

  Eredin approached Kelpie, rubbed and patted her neck and looked surprised to see that the mare was dry. Kelpie abruptly withdrew her head and let out a prolonged shriek. Eredin turned to Ciri. If he also gives me a pat, she thought, He will regret it.

  ‘Come with me, please.’

  They walked along a stream, running down a steep, densely forested slopes, that led up to stairs made of rundown sandstone. The stairs were aged, cracked and torn by tree roots. All around them was forest, a primeval forest, where there were many old ash and hornbeam, yew trees, maples and oaks, their feet tangled in hazel bushes. It smelled of sage, nettle, wet stones, spring and mildew.

  Ciri walked quietly, w
ithout haste and with easy breaths. She also had her nerves under control. She had no idea what Eredin wanted from her, but she did not have the best feelings.

  Above the rock step, from which fell a narrow waterfall was a stone terrace. On it, shaded by elderberry bushes, was a gazebo wrapped in ivy. Below she could see the trees, the ribbon of the river and the roofs, terraces and colonnades of Tir Na Lia.

  They were silent for a while, watching the scene.

  ‘Nobody told me,’ Ciri was the first to break the silence, ‘the name of the river.’

  ‘Easnadh.’

  ‘The Sigh? Nice. And this stream.’

  ‘Tuathe.’

  ‘Whisper. Also nice. Why did no one tell me humans lived in this world?’

  ‘Because that information is completely irrelevant to you. Let’s go to the gazebo.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The first thing she noticed after entering was the wooden couch. Ciri felt her temples begin to throb.

  Sure, she thought, it was to be expected. I read a book in the temple about an affair, written by Anna Tiller. It was about an old king, the queen and the young duke from power hungry contenders. Eredin is ruthless, ambitious and determined. He knows that the one who is with the queen is the true king. A real man. He who possess the queen, possess the kingdom. Here, on this couch, starts a coup…

  The elf sat at a marble table, and pointed for Ciri to take a second chair. The view from the window seemed to be of more interest to him that she was, and he was not looking at the couch at all.

  ‘Here you will stay forever,’ he said, ‘my light butterfly. Until the end of your life.’

  She said nothing. She looked into his eyes intently.

  There was nothing in those eyes.

  ‘You will not be allowed to leave here,’ he continued. ‘They are unwilling to admit despite the prophecy and myth, you’re nobody, you’re nothing, only a creature without importance. Believe it, they will not let you go. They promised it to you, just to deceive you and to provide you your tractability. They never intended to make good on their promise. Never.’

  ‘Avallac’h,’ she said hoarsely, ‘he gave his word. Doubting an elf’s word is apparently an insult.’

  ‘Avallac’h is Aen Saevherne. The Knowing ones have their own code of honor, which with many noble phrases conceal an old rule that the end justifies the means.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you are telling me all this. Unless… You have something you want from me. You want to barter. What is it? Eredin? My freedom… For what?’

  He stared at her for a long time. And she vainly sought in his eyes some indication of a signal, a sign, anything.

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ he began slowly, ‘you already know little enough about Auberon. You certainly already noticed that he is ambitious. There are things that he’ll never accept, never take note of. He’d sooner die.’

  Ciri was silent, biting her lip and glancing at the couch.

  ‘Auberon Muircetach,’ said the elf, ‘never uses magic or other means able to change a situation. But such means exist. Good, strong, guaranteed resources. Much more reliable than the pheromones that Avallac'h maids blend into your perfume.’

  He quickly ran his hand over the veined marble table. When he removed his hand there was a bottle of grey-green jade.

  ‘No,’ Ciri gasped. ‘I will not. Absolutely not.’

  ‘You did not let me finish.’

  ‘Do not take me for a fool. I will not give him what is in this flask. I won’t do those kind of things.’

  ‘You draw to hasty conclusions,’ he said calmly, looking into her eyes, ‘in this race, you are overtaking yourself. Something like that always ends in a fall. A very painful fall.’

  ‘I said no!’

  ‘Think it over. Regardless of what the bottle contains, you always come out ahead, Swallow.’

  ‘No!’

  With a quick and smooth motion, like a magician, the elf make the bottle disappear from the table. The he looked again at the river Easnadh, which meandered thought the trees, gleaming.

  ‘You’ll die here, butterfly,’ he said. ‘They will not let you go. But the decision is up to you.’

  ‘I’ve made a covenant. For my freedom…’

  ‘Freedom,’ he spat. ‘You are still talking about freedom. What would you do if you finally regained it? Where would you go? Do you realize that you are on our world at the moment, not only in space but time. Time flows differently here that there. Those whom you knew as children are now elderly, those who you once knew have long since died.’

  ‘I do not believe it.’

  ‘Remember your legends. Legends about people missing and returning after a year, only to see the graves of their relatives covered by grass. Are you going to say that they were pure fantasy, things taken from stories? You are wrong. For centuries, people have been kidnapped, snatched by riders, by the Wild Hunt. Abducted, exploited and then thrown away like an empty shell once consumed. But do not expect to be that lucky, Zireael. You will die here, you will not see the graves of your friends.’

  ‘I do not believe what you say.’

  ‘That is your personal thing. You chose your destiny. Let’s go back. I want to ask you something, Swallow. Would it be ok to have a meal together before going back to Tir Na Lia?’

  For a few heartbeats, hunger, fought fascination and anger, fear of poising and a general dislike.

  ‘I’d be happy to.’ She looked down. ‘Thank you for the invitation.’

  ‘Thank you. Let’s go.’

  Upon leaving the gazebo, she looked back at the couch and thought that Anna Tiller was probably a fool and exalted scribomanic.

  Slowly, silently, between the smell of mint, sage and nettle, they went down the stairs. Down the banks of the steam, which was called Whisper.

  That night, when she entered the royal apartments, perfumed, her hair still wet after bathing, she found Auberon on a couch leaning over a thick book. Without words, with a simple gesture, he invited her to sit beside him.

  The book was richly illustrated. In fact, all that were in it were illustrations. Although Ciri tried to play the sophisticated lady, she felt her cheeks flush. In the temple library in Ellander she had seen similar works. But the book the King of the Alders had, those others could not compete in wealth or the variety of items, or the artistry of the imagery.

  They view it in silence for a long time.

  ‘Take off your clothes, please.’

  This time, he too undressed. His body was lean and boyish, almost like Giselher, Kayleigh or Reef, who see had often saw naked as they bathed together in rivers or lakes. However, the Rats radiated youth, the joy of life around them sparkling like drops of water.

  For him, the King of the Alders, throbbed cold eternity.

  He was patient. Several times it seemed that he was about to. But nothing came of it. Ciri was angry with herself, she thought her ignorance or inexperience was to blame. He recognized this and calmed her. As always effectively. And she fell asleep.

  In the morning her was not with her.

  The next night, for the first time, the King of the Alders showed signs of impatience. Ciri found him leaning over a table, where there was a mirror set in a frame of amber. There was a white powder on the mirror.

  Here we go, thought Ciri.

  With a knife, Auberon was gathering the fisstech and distributing it into two strips. He took a tube of silver off of the table and inhaled the drug through the nose, first by his left nostril, then his right. His eyes, usually bright, seemed off and turbid and filled with tears. Ciri immediately realized this was not the first dose.

  He made to new lines on the glass and with a gesture invited her over, passing the tube. What does it matter, she thought, it will be easier.

  The drug was incredibly strong.

  For a while they sat side by side on the bed and stared at the moon with watery eyes. Ciri sneezed.

  ‘Lac
ing night,’ she said, wiping her nose with her silk sleeve.

  ‘Magic,’ he corrected her, rubbing his eyes. ‘Ensh’eass not en’leass. You have to pay attention to the pronunciation.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Take off your clothes.’

  At first it seemed that everything would be okay, that the drug had excited him the same way that she was excited. She came alive and took the initiative, while even whispering some indecent words. That made him react and the effect was tangible, and Ciri was sure that this time, surely…

  Again, it did not work.

  And then he became impatient. He got up and threw a sable fur around his shoulders. He stood there, turned towards the window and stared at the moon. Ciri sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was frustrated and annoyed, but unusually vigorous. Undoubtedly it was the effects of the strong narcotics.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said. ‘The scar has disfigured me. I know what you see when you look at me. There is not much elf in me. A gold nugget in a pile of manure…’

  He whirled.

  ‘You are extraordinarily modest,’ he said. ‘I would say, rather, a pearl in pig manure. A diamond on a rotting finger of a corpse. The language could devise other comparisons. Tomorrow I’ll ask about them, little dh’oine. A human in which this is absolutely nothing elven.’

  He went to the table, picked up the tube and bent over the mirror. Ciri sat as if made from stone. She felt as if someone had spat upon her.

  ‘I do not come here out of love!’ she snapped angrily. ‘I come under blackmail and you know it! But I agreed to do it, for…’

  ‘For who?’ he interrupted hotly, unlike your typical elf. ‘For me? For the Aen Seidhe trapped in your world? You stupid girl! You do it for yourself, you come here in vain trying to give. Because it is your only hope, your only hope of salvation. I’ll tell you again – prey, prey fervently to your human god, idols or totems. Because if it is not me, then it will be Avallac’h and his laboratory. You cannot even imagine what it would mean for you to go there and submit to the alternative.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Ciri said in a muffled voice, curling up on the bed. ‘I agreed to everything, just to regain my freedom. To be able to finally rid myself of you. To leave. To my world. To my friends.’