“Take the leggings and shirt off. Oh, sweet gods! Dear girl! Can you really walk? Run?”
Both hips and her left thigh were black and blue with haematomas and swellings. Ciri shuddered and hissed, pulling away from the magician’s hand. Triss swore viciously in Dwarvish, using inexpressibly foul language.
“Was that the windmill, too?” she asked, trying to remain calm.
“This? No. This, this was the windmill.” Ciri pointed indifferently to an impressive bruise below her left knee, covering her shin. “And these other ones… They were the pendulum. I practise my fencing steps on the pendulum. Geralt says I’m already good at the pendulum. He says I’ve got… Flair. I’ve got flair.”
“And if you run out of flair” – Triss ground her teeth together – “I take it the pendulum thumps you?”
“But of course,” the girl confirmed, looking at her, clearly surprised at this lack of knowledge. “It thumps you, and how.”
“And here? On your side? What was that? A smith’s hammer?”
Ciri hissed with pain and blushed.
“I fell off the comb…”
“…and the comb thumped you,” finished Triss, controlling herself with increasing difficulty. Ciri snorted.
“How can a comb thump you when it’s buried in the ground? It can’t! I just fell. I was practising a jumping pirouette and it didn’t work. That’s where the bruise came from. Because I hit a post.”
“And you lay there for two days? In pain? Finding it hard to breathe?”
“Not at all. Coën rubbed it and put me straight back on the comb. You have to, you know? Otherwise you catch fear.”
“What?”
“You catch fear,” Ciri repeated proudly, brushing her ashen fringe from her forehead. “Didn’t you know? Even when something bad happens to you, you have to go straight back to that piece of equipment or you get frightened. And if you’re frightened you’ll be hopeless at the exercise. You mustn’t give up. Geralt said so.”
“I have to remember that maxim,” the enchantress murmured through her teeth. “And that it came from Geralt. Not a bad prescription for life although I’m not sure it applies in every situation. But it is easy to put into practise at someone else’s expense. So you mustn’t give up? Even though you are being thumped and beaten in a thousand ways, you’re to get up and carry on practising?”
“Of course. A witcher’s not afraid of anything.”
“Is that so? And you, Ciri? You aren’t afraid of anything? Answer truthfully.”
The girl turned away and bit her lip.
“You won’t tell anybody?”
“I won’t.”
“I’m frightened of two pendulums. Two at the same time. And the windmill, but only when it’s set to go fast. And there’s also a long balance, I still have to go on that… with a safety de— A safety device. Lambert says I’m a sissy and a wimp but that’s not true. Geralt told me my weight is distributed a little differently because I’m a girl. I’ve simply got to practise more unless… I wanted to ask you something. May I?”
“You may.”
“If you know magic and spells… If you can cast them… Can you turn me into a boy?”
“No,” Triss replied in an icy tone. “I can’t.”
“Hmm…” The little witcher-girl was clearly troubled. “But could you at least…”
“At least what?”
“Could you do something so I don’t have to…” Ciri blushed. “I’ll whisper it in your ear.”
“Go on.” Triss leaned over. “I’m listening.”
Ciri, growing even redder, brought her head closer to the enchantress’s chestnut hair.
Triss sat up abruptly, her eyes flaming.
“Today? Now?”
“Mhm.”
“Hell and bloody damnation!” the enchantress yelled, and kicked the stool so hard that it hit the door and brought down the rat skin. “Pox, plague, shit and leprosy! I’m going to kill those cursed idiots!”
“Calm down, Merigold,” said Lambert. “It’s unhealthy to get so worked up, especially with no reason.”
“Don’t preach at me! And stop calling me ‘Merigold’! But best of all, stop talking altogether. I’m not speaking to you. Vesemir, Geralt, have any of you seen how terribly battered this child is? She hasn’t got a single healthy spot on her body!”
“Dear child,” said Vesemir gravely, “don’t let yourself get carried away by your emotions. You were brought up differently, you’ve seen children being brought up in another way. Ciri comes from the south where girls and boys are brought up in the same way, like the elves. She was put on a pony when she was five and when she was eight she was already riding out hunting. She was taught to use a bow, javelin and sword. A bruise is nothing new to Ciri—”
“Don’t give me that nonsense,” Triss flared. “Don’t pretend you’re stupid. This is not some pony or horse or sleigh ride. This is Kaer Morhen! On these windmills and pendulums of yours, on this Killer path of yours, dozens of boys have broken their bones and twisted their necks, boys who were hard, seasoned vagabonds like you, found on roads and pulled out of gutters. Sinewy scamps and good-for-nothings, pretty experienced despite their short lives. What chance has Ciri got? Even though she’s been brought up in the south with elven methods, even growing up under the hand of a battle-axe like Lioness Calanthe, that little one was and still is a princess. Delicate skin, slight build, light bones… She’s a girl! What do you want to turn her into? A witcher?”
“That girl,” said Geralt quietly and calmly, “that petite, delicate princess lived through the Massacre of Cintra. Left entirely to her own devices, she stole past Nilfgaard’s cohorts. She successfully fled the marauders who prowled the villages, plundering and murdering anything that still lived. She survived on her own for two weeks in the forests of Transriver, entirely alone. She spent a month roaming with a pack of fugitives, slogging as hard as all the others and starving like all the others. For almost half a year, having been taken in by a peasant family, she worked on the land and with the livestock. Believe me, Triss, life has tried, seasoned and hardened her no less than good-for-nothings like us, who were brought to Kaer Morhen from the highways. Ciri is no weaker than unwanted bastards, like us, who were left with witchers in taverns like kittens in a wicker basket. And her gender? What difference does that make?”
“You still ask? You still dare ask that?” yelled the magician. “What difference does it make? Only that the girl, not being like you, has her days! And bears them exceptionally badly! And you want her to tear her lungs out on the Killer and some bloody windmills!”
Despite her outrage, Triss felt an exquisite satisfaction at the sight of the sheepish expressions of the young witchers, and Vesemir’s jaw suddenly dropping open.
“You didn’t even know.” She nodded in what was now a calm, concerned and gentle reproach. “You’re pathetic guardians. She’s ashamed to tell you because she was taught not to mention such complaints to men. And she’s ashamed of the weakness, the pain and the fact that she is less fit. Has any one of you thought about that? Taken any interest in it? Or tried to guess what might be the matter with her? Maybe her very first bleed happened here, in Kaer Morhen? And she cried to herself at night, unable to find any sympathy, consolation or even understanding from anyone? Has any one of you given it any thought whatsoever?”
“Stop it, Triss,” moaned Geralt quietly. “That’s enough. You’ve achieved what you wanted. And maybe even more.”
“The devil take it,” cursed Coën. “We’ve turned out to be right idiots, there’s no two ways about it, eh, Vesemir, and you—”
“Silence,” growled the old witcher. “Not a word.”
It was Eskel’s behaviour which was most unlikely; he got up, approached the enchantress, bent down low, took her hand and kissed it respectfully. She swiftly withdrew her hand. Not so as to demonstrate her anger and annoyance but to break the pleasant, piercing vibration triggered by the witcher’s touch.
Eskel emanated powerfully. More powerfully than Geralt.
“Triss,” he said, rubbing the hide-ous scar on his cheek with embarrassment, “help us. We ask you. Help us, Triss.”
The enchantress looked him in the eye and pursed her lips. “With what? What am I to help you with, Eskel?”
Eskel rubbed his cheek again, looked at Geralt. The white-haired witcher bowed his head, hiding his eyes behind his hand. Vesemir cleared his throat loudly.
At that moment, the door creaked open and Ciri entered the hall. Vesemir’s hawking changed into something like a wheeze, a loud indrawn breath. Lambert opened his mouth. Triss suppressed a laugh.
Ciri, her hair cut and styled, was walking towards them with tiny steps, carefully holding up a dark-blue dress – shortened and adjusted, and still showing the signs of having been carried in a saddle-bag. Another present from the enchantress gleamed around the girl’s neck – a little black viper made of lacquered leather with a ruby eye and gold clasp.
Ciri stopped in front of Vesemir. Not quite knowing what to do with her hands, she planted her thumbs behind her belt.
“I cannot train today,” she recited in the utter silence, slowly and emphatically, “for I am… I am…”
She looked at the enchantress. Triss winked at her, smirking like a rascal well pleased with his mischief, and moved her lips to prompt the memorised lines.
“Indisposed!” ended Ciri loudly and proudly, turning her nose up almost to the ceiling.
Vesemir hawked again. But Eskel, dear Eskel, kept his head and once more behaved as was fitting.
“Of course,” he said casually, smiling. “We understand and clearly we will postpone your exercises until your indisposition has passed. We will also cut the theory short and, if you feel unwell, we will put it aside for the time being, too. If you need any medication or—”
“I’ll take care of that,” Triss cut in just as casually.
“Aha…” Only now did Ciri blush a little – she looked at the old witcher. “Uncle Vesemir, I’ve asked Triss… that is, Miss Merigold, to… that is… Well, to stay here with us. For longer. For a long time. But Triss said you have to agree forsooth. Uncle Vesemir! Say yes!”
“I agree…” Vesemir wheezed out. “Of course, I agree…”
“We are very happy.” Only now did Geralt take his hand from his forehead. “We are extremely pleased, Triss.”
The enchantress nodded slightly towards him and innocently fluttered her eyelashes, winding a chestnut lock around her finger. Geralt’s face seemed almost graven from stone.
“You behaved very properly and politely, Ciri,” he said, “offering Miss Merigold our ongoing hospitality in Kaer Morhen. I am proud of you.”
Ciri reddened and smiled broadly. The enchantress gave her the next pre-arranged sign.
“And now,” said the girl, turning her nose up even higher, “I will leave you alone because you no doubt wish to talk over various important matters with Triss. Miss Merigold. Uncle Vesemir, gentlemen… I bid you goodbye. For the time being.”
She curtseyed gracefully then left the hall, walking up the stairs slowly and with dignity.
“Bloody hell.” Lambert broke the silence. “To think I didn’t believe that she really is a princess.”
“Have you understood, you idiots?” Vesemir cast his eye around. “If she puts a dress on in the morning I don’t want to see any exercises… Understood?”
Eskel and Coën bestowed a look which was entirely devoid of respect on the old man. Lambert snorted loudly. Geralt stared at the enchantress and the enchantress smiled back.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, Triss.”
“Conditions?” Eskel was clearly worried. “But we’ve already promised to ease Ciri’s training, Triss. What other conditions do you want to impose?”
“Well, maybe ‘conditions’ isn’t a very nice phrase. So let us call it advice. I will give you three pieces of advice, and you are going to abide by each of them. If, of course, you really want me to stay and help you bring up the little one.”
“We’re listening,” said Geralt. “Go on, Triss.”
“Above all,” she began, smiling maliciously, “Ciri’s menu is to be more varied. And the secret mushrooms and mysterious greens in particular have to be limited.”
Geralt and Coën controlled their expressions wonderfully, Lambert and Eskel a little less so, Vesemir not at all. But then, she thought, looking at his comically embarrassed expression, in his day the world was a better place. Duplicity was a character flaw to be ashamed of. Sincerity did not bring shame.
“Fewer infusions of your mystery-shrouded herbs,” she continued, trying not to giggle, “and more milk. You have goats here. Milking is no great art. You’ll see, Lambert, you’ll learn how to do it in no time.”
“Triss,” started Geralt, “listen—”
“No, you listen. You haven’t subjected Ciri to violent mutations, haven’t touched her hormones, haven’t tried any elixirs or Grasses on her. And that’s to be praised. That was sensible, responsible and humane. You haven’t harmed her with any of your poisons – all the more so you must not cripple her now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The mushrooms whose secrets you guard so carefully,” she explained, “do, indeed, keep the girl wonderfully fit and strengthen her muscles. The herbs guarantee an ideal metabolic rate and hasten her development. All this taken together and helped along by gruelling training causes certain changes in her build, in her adipose tissue. She’s a woman, and as you haven’t crippled her hormonal system, do not cripple her physically now. She might hold it against you later if you so ruthlessly deprive her of her womanly… attributes. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“And how,” muttered Lambert, brazenly eyeing Triss’s breasts which strained against the fabric of her dress. Eskel cleared his throat and looked daggers at the young witcher.
“At the moment,” Geralt asked slowly, also gliding his eyes over this and that, “you haven’t noticed anything irreversible in her, I hope?”
“No.” She smiled. “Fortunately, not. She is developing healthily and normally and is built like a young dryad – it’s a pleasure to look at her. But I ask you to be moderate in using your accelerants.”
“We will,” promised Vesemir. “Thank you for the warning, child. What else? You said three… pieces of advice.”
“Indeed. This is the second: Ciri must not be allowed to grow wild. She has to have contact with the world. With her peers. She has to be decently educated and prepared for a normal life. Let her wave her sword about for the time being. You won’t turn her into a witcher without mutation anyway, but having a witcher’s training won’t harm her. Times are hard and dangerous; she’ll be able to defend herself when necessary. Like an elf. But you must not bury her alive here, in the middle of nowhere. She has to enter normal life.”
“Her normal life went up in flames along with Cintra,” murmured Geralt, “but regarding this, Triss, as usual you’re right. We’ve already thought about it. In spring I’m going to take her to the Temple school. To Nenneke. To Ellander.”
“That’s a very good idea and a wise decision. Nenneke is an exceptional woman and Goddess Melitele’s sanctuary an exceptional place. Safe, sure, and it guarantees an appropriate education for the girl. Does Ciri know yet?”
“She does. She kicked up a fuss for a few days but finally accepted the idea. Now she is even looking forward to spring with impatience, excited by the prospect of an expedition to Temeria. She’s interested in the world.”
“So was I at her age.” Triss smiled. “And that comparison brings us dangerously close to the third piece of advice. The most important piece. And you already know what it is. Don’t pull silly faces. I’m a magician, have you forgotten? I don’t know how long it took you to recognise Ciri’s magical abilities. It took me less than half an hour. After that I knew who, or rather what, the girl is.”
“And what is she?”
“A Source.”
“That’s impossible!”
“It’s possible. Certain even. Ciri is a Source and has mediumistic powers. What is more, these powers are very, very worrying. And you, my dear witchers, are perfectly well aware of this. You’ve noticed these powers and they have worried you too. That is the one and only reason you brought me here to Kaer Morhen? Am I right? The one and only reason?”
“Yes,” Vesemir confirmed after a moment’s silence.
Triss breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. For a moment, she was afraid that Geralt would be the one to confirm it.
The first snow fell the following day, fine snowflakes initially, but soon turning into a blizzard. It fell throughout the night and, in the early morning, the walls of Kaer Morhen were drowned beneath a snowdrift. There could be no question of running the Killer, especially since Ciri was still not feeling very well. Triss suspected that the witchers’ accelerants might be the cause of the girl’s menstrual problems. She could not be sure, however, knowing practically nothing about the drugs, and Ciri was, beyond doubt, the only girl in the world to whom they had been administered. She did not share her suspicions with the witchers. She did not want to worry or annoy them and preferred to apply her own methods. She gave Ciri elixirs to drink, tied a string of active jaspers around her waist, under her dress, and forbade her to exert herself in any way, especially by chasing around wildly hunting rats with a sword.
Ciri was bored. She roamed the castle sleepily and finally, for lack of any other amusement, joined Coën who was cleaning the stable, grooming the horses and repairing a harness.
Geralt – to the enchantress’s rage – disappeared somewhere and appeared only towards evening, bearing a dead goat. Triss helped him skin his prey. Although she sincerely detested the smell of meat and blood, she wanted to be near the witcher. Near him. As near as possible. A cold, determined resolution was growing in her. She did not want to sleep alone any longer.
Blood of Elves Page 8