watch, with my own eyes…
Watch the ashen-haired child die.
Oh, no. Triss shuddered again. Never. Not at such a price.
Besides, she thought, I've probably got excited too soon again. That's probably not what this is about. We talked over supper, gossiped about this and that. I tried to guide the conversation to the Child Surprise several times to no avail. They changed the subject at once.
She had watched them. Vesemir had been tense and troubled; Geralt uneasy, Lambert and Eskel falsely merry and talkative, Coen so natural as to be unnatural. The only one who had been sincere and open was Ciri, rosy- cheeked from the cold, dishevelled, happy and devilishly voracious. They had eaten beer potage, thick with croutons and cheese, and Ciri had been surprised they had not served mushrooms as well. They had drunk cider, but the girl had been given water and was clearly both astonished and revolted by it.
'Where's the salad?' she had yelled, and Lambert had rebuked her sharply and ordered her to take her elbows off the table.
Mushrooms and salad. In December?
Of course, thought Triss. They're feeding her those legendary cave saprophytes – a mountain plant unknown to science – giving her the famous infusions of their mysterious herbs to drink. The girl is developing quickly, is acquiring a witcher's infernal fitness. Naturally, without the mutation, without the risk, without the hormonal upheaval. But the magician must not know this. It is to be kept a secret from the magician. They aren't going to tell me anything; they aren't going to show me anything.
I saw how that girl ran. I saw how she danced on the beam with her sword, agile and swift, full of a dancer's near-feline grace, moving like an acrobat. I must, she thought, I absolutely must see her body, see how she's developing under the influence of whatever it is they're feeding her. And what if I managed to steal samples of these 'mushrooms' and 'salads' and take them away? Well, well…
And trust? I don't give a fig for your trust, witchers. There's cancer out there in the world, smallpox, tetanus and leukaemia, there are allergies, there's cot death. And you're keeping your 'mushrooms', which could perhaps be distilled and turned into life-saving medicines, hidden away from the world. You're keeping them a secret even from me, and others to whom you declare your friendship, respect and trust. Even I'm forbidden to see not just the Laboratorium, but even the bloody mushrooms!
So why did you bring me here? Me, a magician?
Magic!
Triss giggled. Ha, she thought, witchers, I've got you! Ciri scared you just as she did me. She 'withdrew' into a daydream, started to prophesy, gave out an aura which, after all, you can sense almost as well as I can. She automatically reached for something psy-chokinetically, or bent a pewter spoon with her will as she stared at it during lunch. She answered questions you only thought, and maybe even some which you were afraid to ask yourselves. And you felt fear. You realised that your Surprise is more surprising than you had imagined.
You realised that you have the Source in Kaer Morhen.
And that, you can't manage without a magician.
And you don't have a single friendly magician, not a single one you could trust. Apart from me and…
And Yennefer.
The wind howled, banged the shutter and swelled the tapestry. Triss rolled on to her back and, lost in thought, started to bite her thumb nail.
Geralt had not invited Yennefer. He had invited her. Does that mean…?
Who knows. Maybe. But if it's as I think then why…?
Why…?
'Why hasn't he come to me?' she shouted quietly into the darkness, angry and aroused.
She was answered by the wind howling amidst the ruins.
The morning was sunny but devilishly cold. Triss woke chilled through and through, without having had enough sleep, but finally assured and decided.
She was the last to go down to the hall. She accepted the tribute of gazes which rewarded her efforts – she had changed her travel clothes for an attractive but simple dress and had skilfully applied magical scents and non-magical but incredibly expensive cosmetics. She ate her porridge chatting with the witchers about unimportant and trivial matters.
'Water again?' muttered Ciri suddenly, peering into her tumbler. 'My teeth go numb when I drink water! I want some juice! That blue one!'
'Don't slouch,' said Lambert, stealing a glance at Triss from the corner of his eye. 'And don't wipe your mouth with your sleeve! Finish your food; it's time for training. The days are getting shorter.'
'Geralt.' Triss finished her porridge. 'Ciri fell on the Trail yesterday. Nothing serious, but it was because of that jester's outfit she wears. It all fits so badly, and it hinders her movements.'
Vesemir cleared his throat and turned his eyes away. Aha,
thought the enchantress, so it's your work, master of the sword. Predictable enough, Ciri's short tunic does look as if it has been cut out with a knife and sewn together with an arrow-head.
'The days are, indeed, getting shorter,' she continued, not waiting for a comment. 'But we're going to make today shorter still. Ciri, have you finished? Come with me, if you please. We shall make some vital adjustments to your uniform.'
'She's been running around in this for a year, Merigold,' said Lambert angrily. 'And everything was fine until…'
'… until a woman arrived who can't bear to look at clothes in poor taste which don't fit? You're right, Lambert. But a woman has arrived, and the old order's collapsed; a time of great change has arrived. Come on, Ciri.'
The girl hesitated, looked at Geralt. Geralt nodded his agreement and smiled. Pleasantly. Just as he had smiled in the past when, when…
Triss turned her eyes away. His smile was not for her.
Ciri's little room was a faithful replica of the witchers' quarters. It was, like theirs, devoid of almost all fittings and furniture. There was practically nothing there beside a few planks nailed together to form a bed, a stool and a trunk. Witchers decorated the walls and doors of their quarters with the skins of animals they killed when hunting – stags, lynx, wolves and even wolverines. On the door of Ciri's little room, however, hung the skin of an enormous rat with a hideous scaly tail. Triss fought back her desire to tear the stinking abomination down and throw it out of the window.
The girl, standing by the bed, stared at her expectantly.
'We'll try,' said the enchantress, 'to make this… sheath fit a little better. I've always had a knack for cutting and sewing so I ought to be able to manage this goatskin, too. And you, little witcher-girl, have you ever had a needle in your hand? Have you been taught anything other than making holes with a sword in sacks of straw?'
'When I was in Transriver, in Kagen, I had to spin,' muttered Ciri unwillingly. 'They didn't give me any sewing because I only
spoilt the linen and wasted thread; they had to undo everything. The spinning was terribly boring – yuk!'
'True,' giggled Triss. 'It's hard to find anything more boring. I hated spinning, too.'
'And did you have to? I did because… But you're a wi- magician. You can conjure anything up! That amazing dress… did you conjure it up?'
'No.' Triss smiled. 'Nor did I sew it myself. I'm not that talented.'
'And my clothes, how are you going to make them? Conjure them up?'
'There's no need. A magic needle is enough, one which we shall charm into working more vigorously. And if there's a need…'
Triss slowly ran her hand across the torn hole in the sleeve of Ciri's jacket, murmuring a spell while stimulating an amulet to work. Not a trace remained of the hole. Ciri squealed with joy.
'That's magic! I'm going to have a magical jacket! Wow!'
'Only until I make you an ordinary – but good – one. Right, now take all that off, young lady, and change into something else. These aren't your only clothes, surely?'
Ciri shook her head, lifted the lid of the trunk and showed her a faded loose dress, a dark grey tunic, a linen shirt and a woollen blouse resembling a penitent's sack.
'This is mine,' she said. 'This is what I came in. But I don't wear it now. It's woman's stuff.'
