After lunch and a long siesta followed discussions, the inspection of tomes, scrolls and manuscripts, the study of pictures, prints and maps. And long debates about the mutual inter-relationships between legend and truth extending into the night . . .
And then the nights and dreams. Various dreams. Celibacy made itself felt. At times, instead of the mysteries of the Witcher legend, Condwiramurs dreamed of the Fisher King in all sorts of situations, from extremely non-erotic to extremely erotic. In an extremely non-erotic dream The Fisher King was dragging her behind his boat on a rope. He was rowing slowly and languidly, so she was sinking, drowning, spluttering, and on top of that a terrible fear was tormenting her – she felt that something had pushed off the lake bottom and was swimming up towards her, something awful, something that wanted to swallow the bait – her – being pulled behind the boat. That something was on the point of seizing her when the Fisher King leaned more heavily on the oars, pulling her out of range of the invisible predator’s jaws. As she was dragged along she choked on water and at that moment she awoke.
In an unambiguously erotic dream she was kneeling on the bottom of the rocking boat, hanging over the side, and The Fisher King was holding her by the shoulders and fucking her exuberantly, grunting, hawking and spitting as he did so. Apart from the physical pleasure, Condwiramurs felt gut-wrenching terror – what would happen if Nimue caught them at it? She suddenly saw the face of the little sorceress rocking in the lake. . . and she awoke, soaked in sweat.
Then she got up and opened the window, luxuriated in the night air, the light of the moon and the mist rolling off the lake.
And dreamed on.
*
The tower of Inis Vitre had a terrace supported on columns, suspended over the lake. At the beginning, Condwiramurs did not pay any attention to the matter, but finally began to wonder. The terrace was strange, because it was totally inaccessible. It was impossible to get onto the terrace from any of the rooms she knew.
Aware that the abodes of sorceresses were sure to have such secret anomalies, Condwiramurs did not ask any questions. Even when – as she took a walk along the lake shore – she saw Nimue watching her from the terrace. It was inaccessible, it turned out, only to the unauthorised and the profane.
Piqued that she was thought of as profane, she dug her heels in and pretended that nothing was the matter. But it wasn’t long before the secret of the terrace was revealed.
It was after she had been visited by a series of dreams, triggered by the watercolours of Wilma Wessely. Clearly fascinated by that fragment of the legend, the artist devoted all her works to Ciri in the Tower of the Swallow.
‘I’m having strange dreams after those paintings,’ the novice complained the next morning. ‘I’m dreaming of . . . paintings. Always the same paintings. Not situations, not scenes, but paintings. Ciri on the tower’s battlements . . . An unmoving picture.’
‘And nothing else? No sensations apart from visual ones?’
Nimue knew, of course, that a dream-reader as able as Condwiramurs dreamed with all her senses – she didn’t only experience the dream with sight, like most people, but also with her hearing, touch, smell – even taste.
‘No.’ Condwiramurs shook her head. ‘Only . . .’
‘Yes, yes?’
‘A thought. A stubborn thought. That by this lake, in this tower, I’m not the mistress at all, but a captive.’
‘Follow me.’
Just as Condwiramurs had guessed, the way to the terrace was only possible through the sorceress’s private chambers, which were utterly clean, pedantically tidy, smelling of sandalwood, myrrh, lavender and naphthalene. They had to use a tiny door and a winding staircase leading downwards.
This chamber, unlike the others, didn’t have wood panelling or tapestries. It was simply painted white and was thus very bright. It was all the brighter since there was a huge triptych window, or rather a glass door, leading straight onto the terrace perched above the lake.
The only pieces of furniture in the chamber were two armchairs, an immense looking glass in an oval, mahogany frame and a kind of rack with a horizontal bar and a tapestry draped over it. The tapestry measured about five foot by seven and its tassels rested on the floor. It showed a rocky cliff over a tarn, and a castle carved into the cliff, which seemed to be part of the rock wall. A castle Condwiramurs knew well from numerous illustrations.
‘Vilgefortz’s citadel, Yennefer’s place of imprisonment. The place where the legend ended.’
‘That is so.’ Nimue nodded, apparently indifferently. ‘The legend ended there, at least in its known versions. It’s those versions we know, so we think we know the ending. Ciri fled from the Tower of the Swallow, where, as you dreamed it, she had been a prisoner. When she realised what they wanted to do to her, she escaped. The legend gives many versions of her flight—’
‘The one I like most,’ cut in Condwiramurs, ‘is the one where she threw objects behind her. A comb, an apple and a neckerchief. But—’
‘Condwiramurs.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘As I said, there are myriad versions of the escape. But it is still none too clear how Ciri reached Vilgefortz’s castle straight from the Tower of the Swallow. You couldn’t dream the Tower of the Swallow, could you? Try dreaming the castle. Examine that tapestry carefully . . . Are you listening to me?’
‘That looking glass . . . It’s magical, isn’t it?’
‘No. I squeeze my pimples in front of it.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘It’s Hartmann’s looking glass,’ explained Nimue, seeing the novice’s wrinkled nose and sullen expression. ‘Look into it, if you wish. But please be cautious.’
‘Is it true,’ asked Condwiramurs in a voice trembling with excitement, ‘that from Hartmann’s looking glass you can pass into other—’
‘Worlds? Indeed. But not at once, not without preparation, meditation, concentration and a whole host of other things. When I recommended caution I was thinking about something else.’
‘What?’
‘It works both ways. Something may also emerge from Hartmann’s looking glass.’
*
‘Know what, Nimue . . . When I look at that tapestry—’
‘Have there been dreams?’
‘Yes. But strange ones. From a bird’s eye view. I was a bird . . . I saw the castle from the outside. I couldn’t go inside. Something barred my way.’
‘Look at the tapestry,’ commanded Nimue. ‘Look at the citadel. Look at it carefully; focus your attention on every detail. Concentrate hard; etch that image deeply into your memory. I want you to get there in your dream, to go inside. It’s important for you to go inside.’
*
A truly devilish gale must have been raging outside, beyond the castle walls. The fire was roaring in the grate, quickly consuming the logs. Yennefer was delighting in the warmth. Her current prison was, admittedly, much, much warmer than the dank dungeon where she had spent the last two months, but despite her delight her teeth still chattered. She had completely lost track of time, and no one had hurried to inform her about the date, but she was certain it was December, or perhaps even January.
‘Eat, Yennefer,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘Don’t be shy, tuck in.’
The sorceress had no intention of being shy. If, though, she was coping quite slowly and awkwardly with the chicken, it was only because her barely healed fingers were still clumsy and stiff. It was hard work to hold a knife and fork in them. And she didn’t want to eat with her fingers – she wanted to show Vilgefortz and the other diners, the sorcerer’s guests, that she was stronger than they believed. She didn’t know any of them.
‘I’m truly sorry to have to inform you,’ said Vilgefortz, caressing the stem of his wine glass, ‘that Ciri, your ward, has departed this life. You only have yourself to blame, Yennefer. You and your senseless obstinacy.’
One of the guests, a short, dark-haired man, sneezed loudly, and blew his no
se on a cambric handkerchief. His nose was red and swollen, and clearly completely blocked up.
‘Bless you,’ said Yennefer, not at all bothered by Vilgefortz’s portentous words. ‘Where did you catch such an awful chill, good sir? Did you stand in a draught after bathing?’
Another guest, old, huge, thin, with hideously pale eyes, suddenly cackled. The one with the cold, although his face contorted in anger, thanked the sorceress with a bow and a brief catarrhal sentence. Not brief enough for her not to detect a Nilfgaardian accent.
Vilgefortz turned his face towards her. He was no longer wearing on his head the golden scaffolding or the crystal lens in his eye socket, but he looked even more horrible than when, during the summer, she had first seen his mutilated face. His regenerated left eyeball was now functioning, but was much smaller than his right. The sight took her breath away.
‘You, Yennefer,’ he drawled, ‘no doubt think I’m lying, think I’m trying to ensnare you, trick you. To what end would I do that? I was as distressed as you at the news of Ciri’s death. What am I saying? Even more than you. After all, I had pinned very specific hopes on the maid, had made plans which were to have determined my future. Now the girl is dead, and my plans are ruined.’
‘Good.’ Yennefer, trying hard to hold the knife in her stiff fingers, was slicing a pork cutlet stuffed with plums.
‘You, though,’ continued the wizard, paying no attention to her remark, ‘are merely connected to Ciri by sentimental attachment, which consists in equal measure of regret caused by your own barrenness and a sense of guilt. Yes, yes, Yennefer, guilt! For, after all, you participated in the cross-breeding, in the animal husbandry that resulted in little Ciri’s birth. And then transferred your affection onto the fruit of a genetic experiment, an unsuccessful one, which failed anyway. Because the experimenters lacked in knowledge.’
Yennefer raised her glass to him in silence, praying it wouldn’t fall from her fingers. She was slowly coming to the conclusion that at least two of them would be stiff for a long time. Possibly permanently.
Vilgefortz snorted at her gesture.
‘Now it’s too late, it’s happened,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘But know this, Yennefer, that I possess knowledge. If I’d had the girl as well I would have made use of that knowledge. Indeed, it was bad luck for you, for I would have given you a reason for your crippled excuse of a maternal instinct. Although you’re as dry and sterile as a stone, you’d not only have had a daughter, but a granddaughter too. Or, at least, an excuse for a granddaughter.’
Yennefer snorted contemptuously, although inside she was seething with fury.
‘With the greatest regret I’m compelled to further spoil your splendid mood, my dear,’ the sorcerer said coldly. ‘Because I imagine you’ll be saddened to hear that the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, is also dead. Yes, yes, the same Witcher Geralt, with whom, as with Ciri, you were bound by an ersatz emotion, a ridiculous, foolish and sickly sweet fondness. Know, Yennefer, that our dear Witcher departed from this world in a truly ardent and spectacular fashion. In this case you don’t have to reproach yourself. You’re not to blame in the slightest for the Witcher’s death. I’m responsible for the entire fracas. Try the marinated pears, they are simply delicious.’
Cold hatred lit up Yennefer’s violet eyes. Vilgefortz burst out laughing.
‘I prefer you like this,’ he said. ‘Indeed, were it not for the dimeritium bracelet you’d reduce me to ashes. But the dimeritium is working, so you can only scorch me with your gaze.’
The man with the cold sneezed, blew his nose and coughed until tears trickled from his eyes. The tall man scrutinised the sorceress with his unpleasant, fishy gaze.
‘And where is Mr Rience?’ asked Yennefer, drawing out her words. ‘Mr Rience, who promised me so much, told me so much about what he’d do to me? Where is Mr Shirrú, who never passed up a chance to shove or kick me? Why have the guards, until quite recently boorish and brutal, begun to behave with timid respect? No, Vilgefortz, you don’t have to answer. I know. What you’ve been talking about is one big lie. Ciri escaped you and Geralt escaped you, taking the time, I expect, to give your thugs a bloody good hiding. And what now? Your plans have fallen through, turned to dust. You admitted it yourself, your dreams of power have vanished like smoke. And the sorcerers and Dijkstra are fixing your position, oh yes. Not without reason and not from mercy have you stopped torturing me and forcing me to scan for information you need. And Emperor Emhyr is tightening his net, and is no doubt very, very angry. Ess a tearth, me tiarn? A’pleine a cales, ellea?’
‘I use the Common Speech,’ said the one with the runny nose, holding her gaze. ‘And my name is Stefan Skellen. And by no means, by no means at all, have I filled my britches. Why, I still have the impression that I’m in a much better situation than you, Madam Yennefer.’
The speech tired him, he coughed hard again and blew his nose into the sodden cambric handkerchief.
Vilgefortz struck the table with his hand.
‘Enough of this game,’ he said, grotesquely swivelling his miniature eye. ‘Know this, Yennefer. You are no longer of use to me. In principle I ought to have you shoved in a sack and drowned in the lake, but I use that kind of method with the utmost reluctance. Until the time circumstances permit or compel me to make another decision, you shall remain in isolation. I warn you, however, that I shan’t allow you to cause me problems. If you decide to go on hunger strike again, know this, that I shall not – as I did in October – waste time feeding you through a straw. I shall simply let you starve to death. And in the case of escape attempts the guards’ orders are explicit. And now, farewell. If, naturally, you have satisfied your—’
‘No.’ Yennefer stood up and hurled her napkin down onto the table. ‘Perhaps I would’ve eaten something more, but the company spoils my appetite. Farewell, gentlemen.’
Stefan Skellen sneezed and coughed hard. The pale-eyed man measured her with an evil look and smiled hideously. Vilgefortz looked to one side.
As usual when she was led to or from the prison, Yennefer tried to work out where she was, obtain even a scrap of information that might help her to plan her escape. And each time she met with disappointment. The castle didn’t have any windows through which she could see the surrounding terrain, or even the sun to try to orient herself. Telepathy was impossible, and the two heavy dimeritium bracelets on her arms and the collar around her neck effectively prevented all attempts at magic.
The chamber in which she was being held was as cold and austere as a hermit’s cell. Nonetheless, Yennefer recalled the joyous day when she was transferred there from the dungeon. From the dungeon, on whose floor stood a permanent puddle of stinking water and on whose walls efflorescence and salting erupted. From the dungeon where she’d been fed on scraps that the rats easily tore from her lacerated fingers. When after around two months she had been unshackled and dragged out of there, allowed to bathe and change, Yennefer had been beside herself with happiness. The small room to which she had been transferred seemed like a royal boudoir to her, and the thin gruel they brought her like bird’s nest soup, fit for the imperial table. Naturally, after some time, however, the gruel turned out to be dishwater, her hard pallet a hard pallet and the prison a prison. A cold, cramped prison, where after four paces you reached the wall.
Yennefer swore, sighed, and sat down on the scissor chair which was the only furniture she could use apart from the pallet. He entered so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
‘The name’s Bonhart,’ he said. ‘I’d advise you to remember that name, witch. Imprint it deeply in your memory.’
‘Go fuck yourself, you swine.’
‘I’m a man hunter.’ He ground his teeth. ‘Yes, yes, listen carefully, witch. In September, three months ago, I hunted down your little brat in Ebbing. That Ciri of yours, about whom so much is said.’
Yennefer listened attentively. September. Ebbing. Caught her. But she isn’t here. Perhaps he’s lying?
&
nbsp; ‘An ashen-haired witcher girl, schooled at Kaer Morhen. I ordered her to fight in the arena, to kill people to the screams of the public. Slowly, slowly, I transformed her into a beast. I prepared her for that role with whip, fist and boot heel. The training process was lengthy. But she escaped from me, the green-eyed viper.’
Yennefer gasped imperceptibly.
‘She escaped into the beyond. But we shall meet again. I’m certain that we shall meet again one day. Yes, witch. And if I regret anything it’s only that they roasted your witcher lover, Geralt, in the fire. I’d have loved to let him taste my blade, the accursed freak.’
Yennefer snorted.
‘Well, listen, Bonhart, or whatever your name is. Don’t make me laugh. You’re no match for the Witcher. You can’t compare yourself to him. In any way. You are, as you admitted, a dogcatcher. But only good for little curs. For very little curs.’
‘Look here then, witch.’
He tore open his jerkin and shirt and took out three silver medallions, tangling up their chains. One was shaped like a cat’s head, the next an eagle or a gryphon. She couldn’t see the third one well, but it was probably a wolf.
‘Country fairs,’ she snorted again, feigning indifference, ‘are full of stuff like that.’
‘They aren’t from a fair.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Once upon a time,’ Bonhart hissed, ‘decent people feared witchers more than monsters. Monsters, after all, hid in forests and the undergrowth, while witchers had the audacity to hang around temples, chanceries, schools and playgrounds. Decent people rightly considered that a scandal. So they looked for somebody to bring the impudent witchers to order. And they found someone. Not easily, not quickly, not nearby, but they did. As you can see I’ve bagged three. No more freaks have appeared in the area or annoyed decent citizens by their presence. And were one to appear, I’d do away with him just like I did with the previous ones.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 157