Obeying instructions, Ciri moved to Yennefer’s chamber. Now they were together not only by day but also by night. Sometimes, their studies would take place during the night – certain moves, formulae and spells could not be performed in daylight.
The magician, pleased with the girl’s progress, slowed the speed of her education. They had more free time. They spent their evenings reading books, together or separately. Ciri waded through Stammelford’s Dialogues on the Nature of Magic, Giambattista’s Forces of the Elements and Richert and Monck’s Natural Magic. She also flicked through – because she did not manage to read them in their entirety – such works as Jan Bekker’s The Invisible World and Agnes of Glanville’s The Secret of Secrets. She dipped into the ancient, yellowed Codex of Mirthe, Ard Aercane, and even the famous, terrible Dhu Dwimmermorc, full of menacing etchings.
She also reached for other books which had nothing to do with magic. She read The History of the World and A Treatise on Life. Nor did she leave out lighter works from the Temple library. Blushing, she devoured Marquis La Creahme’s Gambols and Anna Tiller’s The King’s Ladies. She read The Adversities of Loving and Time of the Moon, collections of poems by the famous troubadour Dandilion. She shed tears over the ballads of Essi Daven, subtle, infused with mystery, and collected in a small, beautifully bound volume entitled The Blue Pearl.
She made frequent use of her privilege to ask questions. And she received answers. More and more frequently, however, she was the one being questioned. In the beginning it had seemed that Yennefer was not at all interested in her lot, in her childhood in Cintra or the later events of war. But in time her questions became more and more concrete. Ciri had to reply and did so very unwillingly because every question the magician asked opened a door in her memory which she had promised herself never to open, which she wanted to keep forever locked. Ever since she had met Geralt in Sodden, she had believed she had begun ‘another life’, that the other life – the one in Cintra – had been irrevocably wiped out. The witchers in Kaer Morhen never asked her about anything and, before coming to the temple, Geralt had even prevailed upon her not to say a word to anyone about who she was. Nenneke, who, of course knew about everything, saw to it that to the other priestesses and the novices Ciri was exceptionally ordinary, an illegitimate daughter of a knight and a peasant woman, a child for whom there had been no place either in her father’s castle or her mother’s cottage. Half of the novices in Melitele’s Temple were just such children.
And Yennefer too knew the secret. She was the one who ‘could be trusted’. Yennefer asked. About it. About Cintra.
‘How did you get out of the town, Ciri? How did you slip past the Nilfgaardians?’
Ciri did not remember. Everything broke off, was lost in obscurity and smoke. She remembered the siege, saying goodbye to Queen Calanthe, her grandmother; she remembered the barons and knights forcibly dragging her away from the bed where the wounded, dying Lioness of Cintra lay. She remembered the frantic escape through flaming streets, bloody battle and the horse falling. She remembered the black rider in a helmet adorned with the wings of a bird of prey.
And nothing more.
‘I don’t remember. I really don’t remember, Lady Yennefer.’
Yennefer did not insist. She asked different questions. She did so gently and tactfully and Ciri grew more and more at ease. Finally, she started to speak herself. Without waiting to be asked, she recounted her years as a child in Cintra and on the Isles of Skellige. About how she learned about the Law of Surprise and that fate had decreed her to be the destiny of Geralt of Rivia, the white-haired witcher. She recalled the war, her exile in the forests of Transriver, her time among the druids of Angren and the time spent in the country. How Geralt had found her there and taken her to Kaer Morhen, the Witchers’ Keep, thus opening a new chapter in her short life.
One evening, of her own initiative, unasked, casually, joyfully and embellishing a great deal, she told the enchantress about her first meeting with the witcher in Brokilon Forest, amongst the dryads who had abducted her and wanted to force her to stay and become one of them.
‘Oh!’ said Yennefer on listening to the story, ‘I’d give a lot to see that – Geralt, I mean. I’m trying to imagine the expression on his face in Brokilon, when he saw what sort of Surprise destiny had concocted for him! Because he must have had a wonderful expression when he found out who you were?’
Ciri giggled and her emerald eyes lit up devilishly.
‘Oh, yes!’ she snorted. ‘What an expression! Do you want to see? I’ll show you. Look at me!’
Yennefer burst out laughing.
That laughter, thought Ciri watching swarms of black birds flying eastwards, that laughter, shared and sincere, really brought us together, her and me. We understood – both she and I – that we can laugh and talk together about him. About Geralt. Suddenly we became close, although I knew perfectly well that Geralt both brought us together and separated us, and that that’s how it would always be.
Our laughter together brought us closer to each other.
As did the events two days later. In the forest, on the hills. She was showing me how to find . . .
‘I don’t understand why I have to look for these . . . I’ve forgotten what they’re called again . . .’
‘Intersections,’ prompted Yennefer, picking off the burrs which had attached themselves to her sleeve as they crossed the scrubs. ‘I am showing you how to find them because they’re places from which you can draw the force.’
‘But I know how to draw the force already! And you taught me yourself that the force is everywhere. So why are we roaming around in the bushes? After all, there’s a great deal of force in the Temple!’
‘Yes, indeed, there is a fair amount there. That’s exactly why the Temple was built there and not somewhere else. And that’s why, on Temple grounds, drawing it seems so easy to you.’
‘My legs hurt! Can we sit down for a while?’
‘All right, my ugly one.’
‘Lady Yennefer?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why do we always draw the force from water veins? Magical energy, after all, is everywhere. It’s in the earth, isn’t it? In air, in fire?’
‘True.’
‘And earth . . . Here, there’s plenty of earth around here. Under our feet. And air is everywhere! And should we want fire, it’s enough to light a bonfire and . . .’
‘You are still too weak to draw energy from the earth. You still don’t know enough to succeed in drawing anything from air. And as for fire, I absolutely forbid you to play with it. I’ve already told you, under no circumstances are you allowed to touch the energy of fire!’
‘Don’t shout. I remember.’
They sat in silence on a fallen dry tree trunk, listening to the wind rustling in the tree tops, listening to a woodpecker hammering away somewhere close-by. Ciri was hungry and her saliva was thick from thirst, but she knew that complaining would not get her anywhere. In the past, a month ago, Yennefer had reacted to such complaints with a dry lecture on how to control such primitive instincts; later, she had ignored them in contemptuous silence. Protesting was just as useless and produced as few results as sulking over being called ‘ugly one’.
The magician plucked the last burr from her sleeve. She’s going to ask me something in a moment, thought Ciri, I can hear her thinking about it. She’s going to ask about something I don’t remember again. Or something I don’t want to remember. No, it’s senseless. I’m not going to answer. All of that is in the past, and there’s no returning to the past. She once said so herself.
‘Tell me about your parents, Ciri.’
‘I can’t remember them, Lady Yennefer.’
‘Please try to.’
‘I really don’t remember my papa . . .’ she said in a quiet voice, succumbing to the command. ‘Except . . . Practically nothing. My mama . . . My mama, I do. She had long hair, like this . . . And she was always sad . . . I remember . . . No, I don’t
remember anything . . .’
‘Try to remember, please.’
‘I can’t!’
‘Look at my star.’
Seagulls screamed, diving down between the fishing boats where they caught scourings and tiny fish emptied from the crates. The wind gently fluttered the lowered sails of the drakkars, and smoke, quelled by drizzle, floated above the landing-stage. Triremes from Cintra were sailing into the port, golden lions glistening on blue flags. Uncle Crach, who was standing next to her with his hand – as large as the paw of a grizzly bear – on her shoulder, suddenly fell to one knee. Warriors, standing in rows, rhythmically struck their shields with their swords.
Along the gang-plank towards them came Queen Calanthe. Her grandmother. She who was officially called Ard Rhena, the Highest Queen, on the Isles of Skellige. But Uncle Crach an Craite, the Earl of Skellige, still kneeling with bowed head, greeted the Lioness of Cintra with a title which was less official but considered by the islanders to be more venerable.
‘Hail, Modron.’
‘Princess,’ said Calanthe in a cold and authoritative voice, without so much as a glance at the earl, ‘come here. Come here to me, Ciri.’
Her grandmother’s hand was as strong and hard as a man’s, her rings cold as ice.
‘Where is Eist?’
‘The King . . .’ stammered Crach. ‘Is at sea, Modron. He is looking for the remains . . . And the bodies. Since yesterday . . .’
‘Why did he let them?’ shouted the queen. ‘How could he allow it? How could you allow it, Crach? You’re the Earl of Skellige! No drakkar is allowed to go out to sea without your permission! Why did you allow it, Crach?’
Uncle Crach bowed his head even lower.
‘Horses!’ said Calanthe. ‘We’re going to the fort. And tomorrow, at dawn, I am setting sail. I am taking the princess to Cintra. I will never allow her to return here. And you . . . You have a huge debt to repay me, Crach. One day I will demand repayment.’
‘I know, Modron.’
‘If I do not claim it, she will do so.’ Calanthe looked at Ciri. ‘You will repay the debt to her, Earl. You know how.’
Crach an Craite got to his feet, straightened himself and the features of his weatherbeaten face hardened. With a swift move, he drew from its sheath a simple, steel sword devoid of ornaments and pulled up the sleeve his left arm, marked with thickened white scars.
‘Without the dramatic gestures,’ snorted the queen. ‘Save your blood. I said: one day. Remember!’
‘Aen me Gláeddyv, zvaere a’Bloedgeas, Ard Rhena, Lionors aep Xintra!’ Crach an Craite, the Earl of the Isles of Skellige, raised his arms and shook his sword. The warriors roared hoarsely and beat their weapons against their shields.
‘I accept your oath. Lead the way to the fort, Earl.’
Ciri remembered King Eist’s return, his stony, pale face. And the queen’s silence. She remembered the gloomy, horrible feast at which the wild, bearded sea wolves of Skellige slowly got drunk in terrifying silence. She remembered the whispers. ‘Geas Muire . . . Geas Muire!’
She remembered the trickles of dark beer poured onto the floor, the horns smashed against the stone walls of the hall in bursts of desperate, helpless, senseless anger. ‘Geas Muire! Pavetta!’
Pavetta, the Princess of Cintra, and her husband, Prince Duny. Ciri’s parents. Perished. Killed. Geas Muire, the Curse of the Sea, had killed them. They had been swallowed up by a tempest which no one had foreseen. A tempest which should not have broken out . . .
Ciri turned her head away so that Yennefer would not see the tears swelling in her eyes. Why all this, she thought. Why these questions, these recollections? There’s no returning to the past. There’s no one there for me any more. Not my papa, nor my mama, nor my grandmother, the one who was Ard Rhena, the Lioness of Cintra. Uncle Crach an Craite, no doubt, is also dead. I haven’t got anybody any more and am someone else. There’s no returning . . .
The magician remained silent, lost in thought.
‘Is that when your dreams began?’ she asked suddenly.
‘No,’ Ciri reflected. ‘No, not then. Not until later.’
‘When?’
The girl wrinkled her nose.
‘In the summer . . . The one before . . . Because the following summer there was the war already . . .’
‘Aha. That means the dreams started after you met Geralt in Brokilon?’
She nodded. I’m not going to answer the next question, she decided. But Yennefer did not ask anything. She quickly got to her feet and looked at the sun.
‘Well, that’s enough of this sitting around, my ugly one. It’s getting late. Let’s carry on looking. Keep your hand held loosely in front of you, and don’t tense your fingers. Forward.’
‘Where am I to go? Which direction?’
‘It’s all the same.’
‘The veins are everywhere?’
‘Almost. You’re going to learn how to discover them, to find them in the open and recognise such spots. They are marked by trees which have dried up, gnarled plants, places avoided by all animals. Except cats.’
‘Cats?’
‘Cats like sleeping and resting on intersections. There are many stories about magical animals but really, apart from the dragon, the cat is the only creature which can absorb the force. No one knows why a cat absorbs it and what it does with it . . . What’s the matter?’
‘Oooo . . . There, in that direction! I think there’s something there! Behind that tree!’
‘Ciri, don’t fantasise. Intersections can only be sensed by standing over them . . . Hmmm . . . Interesting. Extraordinary, I’d say. Do you really feel the pull?’
‘Really!’
‘Let’s go then. Interesting, interesting . . . Well, locate it. Show me where.’
‘Here! On this spot!’
‘Well done. Excellent. So you feel delicate cramps in your ring finger? See how it bends downwards? Remember, that’s the sign.’
‘May I draw on it?’
‘Wait, I’ll check.’
‘Lady Yennefer ? How does it work with this drawing of the force? If I gather force into myself then there might not be enough left down below. Is it right to do that? Mother Nenneke taught us that we mustn’t take anything just like that, for the fun of it. Even the cherry has to be left on its tree for the birds, so that it can simply fall.’
Yennefer put her arm around Ciri, kissed her gently on the hair at her temple.
‘I wish,’ she muttered, ‘others could hear what you said. Vilgefortz, Francesca, Terranova . . . Those who believe they have exclusive right to the force and can use it unreservedly. I wish they could listen to the little wise ugly one from Melitele’s Temple. Don’t worry, Ciri. It’s a good thing you’re thinking about it but believe me, there is enough force. It won’t run out. It’s as if you picked one single little cherry from a huge orchard.
‘Can I draw on it now?’
‘Wait. Oh, it’s a devilishly strong pocket. It’s pulsating violently. Be careful, ugly one. Draw on it carefully and very, very slowly.
‘I’m not frightened! Pah-pah! I’m a witcher. Ha! I feel it! I feel . . . Ooouuuch! Lady . . . Ye . . . nnnne . . . feeeeer . . .’
‘Damn it! I warned you! I told you! Head up! Up, I say! Take this and put it to your nose or you’ll be covered in blood! Calmly, calmly, little one, just don’t faint. I’m beside you. I’m beside you
. . . daughter. Hold the handkerchief. I’ll just conjure up some ice . . .’
There was a great fuss about that small amount of blood. Yennefer and Nenneke did not talk to each other for a week.
For a week, Ciri lazed around, read books and got bored because the magician had put her studies on hold. The girl did not see her for entire days – Yennefer disappeared somewhere at dawn, returned in the evening, looked at her strangely and was oddly taciturn.
After a week, Ciri had had enough. In the evening, when the enchantress returned, she went up to her without a word and hu
gged her hard.
Yennefer was silent. For a very long time. She did not have to speak. Her fingers, clasping the girl’s shoulders tightly, spoke for her.
The following day, the high priestess and the lady magician made up, having talked for several hours.
And then, to Ciri’s great joy, everything returned to normal.
‘Look into my eyes, Ciri. A tiny light. The formula, please!’
‘Aine verseos!’
‘Good. Look at my hand. The same move and disperse the light in the air.’
‘Aine aen aenye!’
‘Excellent. And what gesture comes next? Yes, that’s the one. Very good. Strengthen the gesture and draw. More, more, don’t stop!’
‘Oooouuuch . . .’
‘Keep your back straight! Arms by your side! Hands loose, no unnecessary moves with your fingers. Every move can multiply the effect. Do you want a fire to burst out here? Strengthen it, what are you waiting for?’
‘Oouuch, no . . . I can’t—’
‘Relax and stop shaking! Draw! What are you doing? There, that’s better . . . Don’t weaken your will! That’s too fast, you’re hyperventilating! Unnecessarily getting hot! Slower, ugly one, calmer. I know it’s unpleasant. You’ll get used to it.’
‘It hurts . . . My belly . . . Down here—’
‘You’re a woman, it’s a typical reaction. Over time you’ll harden yourself against it. But in order to harden yourself you have to practise without any painkillers blocking you. It really is necessary, Ciri. Don’t be afraid of anything, I’m alert and screening you. Nothing can happen to you. But you have to endure the pain. Breathe calmly. Concentrate. The gesture, please. Perfect. And take the force, draw it, pull it in . . . Good, good . . . Just a bit more . . .’
‘O . . . O . . . Oooouuuch!’
‘There, you see? You can do it, if you want to. Now watch my hand. Carefully. Perform the same movement. Fingers! Fingers, Ciri! Look at my hand, not the ceiling! Now, that’s good, yes, very good. Tie it up. And now turn it around, reverse the move and now issue the force in the form of a stronger light.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 32