‘Who,’ she finally said, ‘is to be the father of the child that matters so much to you? Or perhaps it is of no importance?’
‘It is important. Am I to understand you’ve made your decision?’
‘No, you aren’t. I’m simply clearing up certain matters.’
‘May I help? What do you want to know?’
‘You know very well what.’
They rode on in silence for a time. Ciri saw some swans sailing elegantly down the river.
‘The child’s father,’ Avallac’h spoke calmly and to the point, ‘will be Auberon Muircetach. Auberon Muircetach is our . . . How do you say . . . Our highest leader?’
‘King? King of all the Aen Seidhe?’
‘Aen Seidhe, the People of the Hills, are the elves of your world. We are Aen Elle, the Folk of the Alder. And Auberon Muircetach is indeed our king.’
‘The Alder King?’
‘One could call him that.’
They rode on in silence. It was very warm.
‘Avallac’h.’
‘Yes.
‘If I agree, then afterwards . . . Later . . . will I be free?’
‘You’ll be free and may go wherever you wish. Assuming you don’t decide to stay. With the child.’
She snorted contemptuously, but said nothing.
‘So you’ve decided?’ he asked.
‘I’ll decide when we arrive.’
‘We have arrived.’
Ciri saw the palaces from behind the weeping willows which hung down towards the water like green curtains. She had never seen anything like them in her entire life. The palaces, although built of marble and alabaster, were like fragile bowers. They seemed so delicate, light and airy, as though they weren’t buildings but apparitions of buildings. Ciri expected at any moment that the wind would blow and the little palaces would vanish along with the mist rising from the river. But when the wind blew, when the mist vanished, when the willow branches moved and ripples appeared on the river, the little palaces didn’t vanish and had no intention of vanishing. They only gained in beauty.
Ciri looked in admiration at the little terraces, at the little towers resembling water lilies sticking up from water, at the little bridges suspended above the river like festoons of ivy, at the staircases, steps, balustrades, at the arcades and cloisters, at the peristyles, at the tall and short columns, at the large and small domes, at the slender pinnacles and towers resembling asparagus spears.
‘Tir ná Lia,’ Avallac’h said softly.
The closer they went, the more the beauty of the place seized her powerfully by the heart, more powerfully squeezed her throat, making tears well up in the corners of her eyes. Ciri looked at the fountains, at the mosaics and terracotta, and at the sculptures and monuments. At lacy constructions of whose purpose she couldn’t conceive. And at constructions she was certain served no purpose. Beside aesthetics and harmony.
‘Tir ná Lia,’ repeated Avallac’h. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’
‘I have.’ She felt the pressure on her throat. ‘I once saw something like this. In Shaerrawedd.’
Now it was the elf’s turn to say nothing for a long while.
*
They crossed over the river on an openwork bridge, which seemed so fragile that Kelpie danced and snorted a long time before she was brave enough to step on it.
Although agitated and tense, Ciri looked around attentively, not wanting to overlook anything, no sight that the fairy-tale city of Tir ná Lia offered. Firstly, she was simply consumed by curiosity, and secondly she couldn’t stop thinking about escaping and so looked out watchfully for an opportunity.
She saw long-haired elves in close-fitting jerkins and short cloaks embroidered with fanciful leaf-shaped motifs walking on small bridges and terraces, along avenues and peristyles, on balconies and cloisters. She saw coiffured and provocatively made-up elf-women in gauzy dresses or in outfits resembling male costume.
Eredin Bréacc Glas greeted them outside the portico of one of the palaces. At his curt order, small, grey-attired elves swarmed around, quickly and silently taking care of their horses. Ciri looked on somewhat amazed. Avallac’h, Eredin and all the other elves she had met before were extremely tall. She had to crane her neck to look them in the eye. The small grey elves were much shorter than her. A different race, she thought. A race of servants. Even here, in this fairy—tale world, there must be someone to do the work for the idle.
They entered the palace. Ciri gasped. She was an infanta of royal blood, raised in palaces. But she had never seen such marble and malachite, such stuccos, floors, mosaics, mirrors and candelabras. She felt uncomfortable, awkward in that dazzling interior, out of place, dusty, sweaty and unwashed after her journey.
Avallac’h, quite the opposite, wasn’t at all concerned. He brushed his breeches and boots with a glove, ignoring the fact that the dust was settling on a looking glass. Then he tossed his gloves grandly to the grey elf-woman bowing before him.
‘Auberon?’ he asked curtly. ‘Is he waiting?’
Eredin smiled.
‘Yes. He’s in a great hurry. He demanded that the Swallow go to him immediately, without a moment’s delay. I talked him out of it.’
Avallac’h raised his eyebrows.
‘Zireael,’ Eredin explained very calmly, ‘ought to go to the king free of cares, unburdened, rested, composed and in a good mood. A bath, a new outfit, hairstyle and makeup will ensure that good mood. Auberon will probably be able to hold out that long, I think.’
Ciri sighed deeply and looked at the elf. She was positively amazed at how kind he seemed. Eredin smiled, revealing his even teeth.
‘Only one thing arouses my reservations,’ he declared. ‘And that is the aquiline glint in our Swallow’s eyes. Our Swallow is flashing her eyes left and right, quite like a stoat looking for holes in a cage. The Swallow, I see, is still far from unconditional surrender.’
Avallac’h didn’t comment. Ciri, naturally, didn’t either.
‘I’m not surprised,’ continued Eredin. ‘It cannot be any other way, since it’s the blood of Shiadhal and Lara Dorren. But listen to me very attentively, Zireael. There is no escape from here. There is no possibility of breaking Geas Garadh, the Spell of the Barrier.’
Ciri’s gaze said clearly that she wouldn’t believe it until she had tested it.
‘Even if you were by some miracle to force the Barrier—’ Eredin didn’t take his eyes off her ‘—then know that it would mean your doom. This world only looks pretty. But it carries death, particularly to the inexperienced. Even magic can’t heal a wound from a one-horn’s spike.
‘Know also,’ he continued, not waiting for a comment, ‘that your wild talent won’t help you at all. You won’t make the leap, so don’t even try. And even if you managed, know that my Dearg Ruadhri, my Red Riders, can catch up with you even in the abyss of times and places.’
She didn’t quite understand what he was talking about. But it puzzled her that Avallac’h had suddenly become sullen and was frowning, very evidently unhappy about Eredin’s speech. As though Eredin had said too much.
‘Let us go,’ he said. ‘Come this way, Zireael. We’ll hand you over to the ladies. It’s necessary for you to look beautiful. The first impression is most important.’
*
Her heart was pounding in her breast, the blood thrummed in her temples, her hands were shaking a little. She brought them under control by clenching her fists. She calmed herself with the help of deep breaths. She loosened her shoulders, and moved her neck, stiff with nervousness.
She observed herself once again in the large looking glass. The sight didn’t especially please her. Her hair, still damp from bathing, was trimmed and combed so it at least partly concealed her scar. Her makeup nicely emphasised her eyes and mouth, the silver-grey skirt slit to halfway up her thigh, and black waistcoat with sheer blouse of pearl crepe looked very presentable. The silk scarf around her neck highlighted it all compellingly.
Ciri adjusted and straightened the scarf, then reached between her thighs and adjusted what was necessary. And she had on some truly sensational things beneath the skirt – panties as delicate as gossamer and stockings almost reaching the panties, which in some incredible way stayed up without garters.
She reached for the handle. Hesitantly, as though it wasn’t a handle but a sleeping cobra.
Spet! she thought involuntarily in the elven tongue, I’ve fought against men with swords. I’ll take on one man with . . .
She closed her eyes and sighed. And entered the chamber.
There was no one inside. A book and a carafe lay on the malachite table. There were strange reliefs on the walls, which were draped with heavy curtains and flowery tapestries. In one corner stood a statue. In another a four-poster bed. Her heart began to pound again. She swallowed.
She saw a movement out of the corner of one eye. Not in the chamber. On the terrace.
He was sitting there, turned towards her in half-profile.
Although by now somewhat aware that among elves everything looked different to what she was accustomed to, Ciri experienced a slight shock. All the time the king had been talked about, God knows why, she had had in mind Ervyll of Verden, whose daughter-in-law she had almost once become. Thinking about that king, she saw a large man immobilised by rolls of fat, breath stinking of onions and beer, with a red nose and bloodshot eyes visible above an unkempt beard. Holding a sceptre and orb in his swollen hands, flecked with liver spots.
But a completely different king was sitting by the balustrade of the terrace.
He was very slim, and it was also apparent that he was very tall. His hair was as ashen as hers, shot with snow-white streaks, long, and falling down onto his shoulders and back. He was dressed in a black velvet jerkin. He was wearing typical elven boots with numerous buckles running all the way up the leg. His hands were slender and white, with long fingers.
He was busy blowing bubbles. Holding a small bowl of soapy water and a straw, which he was blowing through. The iridescent, rainbow bubbles floated down towards the river.
She cleared her throat softly.
King Alder turned his head. Ciri was unable to suppress a gasp. His eyes were extraordinary. As bright as molten lead, bottomless. And full of unimaginable sadness.
‘Swallow,’ he said. ‘Zireael. Thank you for agreeing to come.’
She swallowed, not knowing at all what to say. Auberon Muircetach put the straw to his lips and sent another bubble into space.
She locked her fingers in order to stop them trembling, cracking her knuckles. Then she nervously combed her hair. The elf was apparently only paying attention to the bubbles.
‘Are you anxious?’
‘No,’ she lied arrogantly. ‘I’m not.’
‘Are you hurrying somewhere?’
‘Indeed I am.’
She must have put a little too much nonchalance into her voice, and felt she was balancing on the edge of good manners. But the elf wasn’t paying attention. He blew a huge bubble through the end of the straw, making it resemble a cucumber by rocking it. He admired his handiwork for a long time.
‘Would I be a nuisance if I asked you where you’re in such a rush to get to?’
‘Home!’ she snapped, but at once corrected herself, adding in a calm tone. ‘To my world.’
‘To what?’
‘To my world!’
‘Ah. Forgive me. I’d have sworn you said “To my quirk”. And I was indeed very amazed. You speak our language splendidly, but you could still work on your pronunciation and accent.’
‘Is my accent important? After all, you don’t need me for conversation.’
‘Nothing should stop us striving for excellence.’
Another bubble sprang up at the end of the straw. When it broke away it drifted up and burst as it touched a willow branch. Ciri gasped.
‘So you’re in a hurry to get back to your world,’ Auberon Muircetach said a moment later. ‘To yours! Indeed, you humans aren’t overly blessed with humility.’
He dipped the straw in the bowl, and with a seemingly careless blow encircled himself in a swarm of rainbow bubbles.
‘Humans,’ he said. ‘Your hirsute forebear on the spear side appeared in the world much later than the hen. And I’ve never heard of any hens laying claim to the world . . . Why are you fidgeting and hopping on the spot like a little monkey? What I’m saying ought to interest you. After all, it’s history. Ah, let me guess. History doesn’t interest you and bores you.’
A huge iridescent bubble floated towards the river. Ciri said nothing, biting her lip.
‘Your hirsute forebear,’ the elf continued, stirring the mixture with the straw, ‘quickly learned how to use his opposable thumb and rudimentary intelligence. With their help he did various things, usually as amusing as they were woeful. That is, I meant to say that if the things your forebear did hadn’t been woeful, they would have been amusing.’
Another bubble, and, immediately after, a second and a third.
‘We, the Aen Elle, were little concerned what foolishness your ancestor got up to. We, unlike our cousins, the Aen Seidhe, left that world long ago. We chose another, more interesting universe. For at that time – you’ll be astonished by what I say – one could move quite freely between the worlds. With a little talent and skill, naturally. Beyond all doubt you understand what I have in mind.’
Ciri was dying of curiosity, but remained stubbornly silent, aware that the elf was teasing her a little. She didn’t want to make his task any easier.
Auberon Muircetach smiled and turned around. He had on a golden necklace, a badge of office called a torc’h in the Elder Speech.
‘Mire, luned.’
He blew softly, moving the straw around nimbly. Instead of one large bubble, as before, several of them hung from the end.
‘A bubble beside a bubble, and another beside another,’ he crooned. ‘Oh, that’s how it was, that’s how it was . . . We used to say to ourselves, what’s the difference, we’ll spend some time here, some time there, so what if the Dh’oine insist on destroying their world along with themselves? We’ll go somewhere else . . . To another bubble . . .’
Ciri nodded and licked her lips under his burning gaze. The elf smiled again, shook the bubbles, blew once again, this time creating a single large bunch from a myriad of small bubbles joined to each other at the end of the straw.
‘The Conjunction came—’ the elf raised the straw, hung with bubbles ‘—and even more worlds were created. But the door is closed. It is closed to all apart from a handful of chosen ones. And time is passing. The door ought to be opened. Urgently. It’s imperative. Do you understand that word?’
‘I’m not stupid.’
‘No, you aren’t.’ He turned his head. ‘You can’t be. For you are Aen Hen Ichaer, of the Elder Blood. Come closer.’
When he reached out his hand towards her she clenched her teeth involuntarily. But he only touched her forearm, and then her hand. She felt a pleasant tingling. She dared to look into his extraordinary eyes.
‘I didn’t believe it when they said it,’ he whispered. ‘But it’s true. You have Shiadhal’s eyes. Lara’s eyes.’ She lowered her gaze. She felt insecure and foolish.
The Alder King rested his elbow on the balustrade and his chin on his hand. For a long time, he seemed only to be interested in the swans swimming in the river.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he finally said, without turning his head. ‘And now go away and leave me alone.’
*
She found Avallac’h on the terrace by the river just as he was boarding a boat in the company of a gorgeous elf-woman with straw-coloured hair. The elf-woman was wearing lipstick the colour of pistachios and flecks of golden glitter on her eyelids and temples.
Ciri was about to turn around and walk away when Avallac’h stopped her with a gesture. And invited her into the boat with another. Ciri hesitated. She didn’t want to talk in front of witnesse
s. Avallac’h said something quickly to the elf-woman and blew her a kiss. The elf-woman shrugged and went away. She only turned around once, to show Ciri with her eyes what she thought of her.
‘If you could, refrain from comment,’ said Avallac’h when she sat down on the bench nearest the bow. He also sat down, took out his pipes and played, utterly unconcerned about the boat. Ciri looked around apprehensively, but the boat was sailing perfectly down the centre of the current, not deviating by even an inch towards the steps, pillars and columns extending into the water. It was a strange boat. Ciri had never seen one like it, even on Skellige, where she had spent a long time examining everything that was capable of floating on the water. It had a very high, slender prow, carved in the shape of a key. It was very long, very narrow and very unstable. Indeed, only an elf could sit in something like that and play his pipes instead of holding the tiller or the oars.
Avallac’h stopped playing.
‘What troubles you?’
He heard her out, watching her with a strange smile.
‘You’re saddened,’ he stated rather than asked. ‘Saddened, disappointed, but above all indignant.’
‘Not at all! I’m not!’
‘And you shouldn’t be.’ The elf became serious. ‘Auberon treated you with reverence, like a born Aen Elle. Don’t forget, we, the Alder Folk, never hurry. We have time.’
‘He told me something quite different.’
‘I know what he told you.’
‘And what it’s all about, do you also know that?’
‘Indeed.’
She had already learned a great deal. Not by sighing, not even by flickering an eyelid, did she betray her impatience or anger, when once again he put the pipes to his mouth and played. Melodiously, longingly. For a long time.
The boat glided along and Ciri counted the bridges passing over their heads.
‘We have,’ he said right after the fourth bridge, ‘more than serious grounds to suppose that your world is in danger of destruction. By a climactic cataclysm of immense scale. As a scholar you have certainly encountered Aen Ithlinne Speath, Ithlinne’s Prophecy. There is talk of the White Frost in the prophecy. According to us it concerns extensive glaciation. And because it so happens that ninety per cent of the land of your world is in the northern hemisphere, this glaciation may endanger the existence of most living creatures. They will simply perish from the cold. Those that survive will fall into barbarism, will destroy each other in merciless battles for food, or become prey to predators insane with hunger. Remember the text of the prophecy: The Time of Contempt, the Time of the Battle Axe, the Time of the Wolfish Blizzard.’
The Saga of the Witcher Page 170