it's a good thing you've pointed them out to us. But don't let us exaggerate. She is not so remarkable as to make us fall on our knees and raise our eyes to the heavens. Is there a lack of female warriors roaming the world? I assure you, Merigold, Ciri will leave here skilful and healthy, strong and able to face life. And, I warrant, without catatonia or any other epilepsy. Unless you delude her into believing she has some such disease.'
'Vesemir,' Triss turned in her chair, 'tell him to keep quiet, he's getting in the way.'
'You think you know it all,' said Lambert calmly, 'but you don't. Not yet. Look.'
He stretched his hand towards the hearth, arranging his fingers together in a strange way. The chimney roared and howled, the flames burst out violently, the glowing embers grew brighter and rained sparks. Geralt, Vesemir and Eskel glanced at Ciri anxiously but the girl paid no attention to the spectacular fireworks.
Triss folded her arms and looked at Lambert defiantly.
'The Sign of Aard,' she stated calmly. 'Did you think to impress me? With the use of the same sign, strengthened through concentration, will-power and a spell, I can blow the logs from the chimney in a moment and blast them so high you will think they are stars.'
'You can,' he agreed. 'But Ciri can't. She can't form the Sign of Aard. Or any other sign. She has tried hundreds of times, to no effect. And you know our Signs require minimal power. Ciri does not even have that. She is an absolutely normal child. She has not the least magical power – she has, in fact, a comprehensive lack of ability. And here you are telling us she's a Source, trying to threaten us
A Source,' she explained coldly, 'has no control over their skills, no command over them. They are a medium, something like a
transmitter. Unknowingly they get in touch with energy, unknowingly they convert it. And when they try to control it, when they strain trying to form the Signs perhaps, nothing comes of it. And nothing will come of it, not just after hundreds of attempts but after thousands. It is one characteristic of a Source. Then, one day, a moment comes when the Source does not exert itself, does not strain, is daydreaming or thinking about cabbage and sausages, playing dice, enjoying themselves in bed with a partner, picking their nose… and suddenly something happens. A house might goes up in flames. Or sometimes, half a town goes up.'
'You're exaggerating, Merigold.'
'Lambert.' Geralt released his medallion and rested his hands on the table. 'First, stop calling Triss 'Merigold'. She has asked you a number of times not to. Second, Triss is not exaggerating. I saw Ciri's mother, Princess Pavetta, in action with my own eyes. I tell you, it was really something. I don't know if she was a Source or not, but no one suspected she had any power at all until, save by a hair's breadth, she almost reduced the royal castle of Cintra to ashes.'
'We should assume, therefore,' said Eskel, lighting the candles in yet another candle-stick, 'that Ciri could, indeed, be genetically burdened.'
'Not only could,' said Vesemir, 'she is so burdened. On the one hand Lambert is right. Ciri is not capable of forming Signs. On the other… We have all seen…'
He fell silent and looked at Ciri who, with a joyful squeal, acknowledged that she had the upper hand in the game. Triss spied a small smile on Coen's face and was sure he had allowed her to win.
'Precisely,' she sneered. 'You have all seen. What have you seen? Under what circumstances did you see it? Don't you think, boys, that the time has come for more truthful confessions? Hell, I repeat, I will keep your secret. You have my word.'
Lambert glanced at Geralt; Geralt nodded in assent. The younger witcher stood and took a large rectangular crystal carafe and a smaller phial from a high shelf. He poured the contents of the
phial into the carafe, shook it several times and poured the transparent liquid into the chalices on the table.
'Have a drink with us, Triss.'
'Is the truth so terrible,' she mocked, 'that we can't talk about it soberly? Do I have to get drunk in order to hear it?'
'Don't be such a know-all. Take a sip. You will find it easier to understand.'
'What is it?'
'White Seagull.'
What?'
'A mild remedy,' Eskel smiled, 'for pleasant dreams.'
'Damn it! A witcher hallucinogenic? That's why your eyes shine like that in the evenings!'
'White Seagull is very gentle. It's Black Seagull that is hallucinogenic'
'If there's magic in this liquid I'm not allowed to take it!'
'Exclusively natural ingredients,' Geralt reassured her but he looked, she noticed, disconcerted. He was clearly afraid she would question them about the elixir's ingredients. 'And diluted with a great deal of water. We would not offer you anything that could harm you.'
The sparkling liquid, with its strange taste, struck her throat with its chill and then dispersed warmth throughout her body. The magician ran her tongue over her gums and palate. She was unable to recognise any of the ingredients.
'You gave Ciri some of this… Seagull to drink,' she surmised. And then-'
'It was an accident,' Geralt interrupted quickly. 'That first evening, just after we arrived… she was thirsty, and the Seagull stood on the table. Before we had time to react, she had drunk it all in one go. And fallen into a trance.'
We had such a fright,' Vesemir admitted, and sighed. 'Oh, that we did, child. More than we could take.'
'She started speaking with another voice,' the magician stated calmly, looking at the witchers' eyes gleaming in the candlelight. 'She started talking about events and matters of which she could
have no knowledge. She started… to prophesy. Right? What did she say?'
'Rubbish,' said Lambert dryly. 'Senseless drivel.'
'Then I have no doubt' – she looked straight at him – 'that you understood each other perfectly well. Drivel is your speciality -and I am further convinced of it every time you open your mouth. Do me a great favour and don't open it for a while, all right?'
'This once,' said Eskel gravely, rubbing the scar across his cheek, 'Lambert is right, Triss. After drinking Seagull Ciri really was incomprehensible. That first time it was gibberish. Only after-'
He broke off. Triss shook her head.
'It was only the second time that she started talking sense,' she guessed. 'So there was a second time, too. Also after she drank a drug because of your carelessness?'
'Triss.' Geralt raised his head. 'This is not the time for your childish spitefulness. It doesn't amuse us. It worries and upsets us. Yes, there was a second time, too, and a third. Ciri fell, quite by accident, during an exercise. She lost consciousness. When she regained it, she had fallen into another trance. And once again she spoke nonsense. Again it was not her voice. And again it was incomprehensible. But I have heard similar voices before, heard a similar way of speaking. It's how those poor, sick, demented women known as oracles speak. You see what I'm thinking?'
'Clearly. That was the second time, get to the third.'
Geralt wiped his brow, suddenly beaded with sweat, on his forearm. 'Ciri often wakes up at night,' he continued. 'Shouting. She has been through a lot. She does not want to talk about it but it is clear that she saw things no child should see in Cintra and Angren. I even fear that… that someone harmed her. It comes back to her in dreams. Usually she is easy to reassure and she falls asleep without any problem… But once, after waking… she was in a trance again. She again spoke with someone else's, unpleasant, menacing voice. She spoke clearly and made sense. She prophesied. Foresaw the future. And what she foretold…'
'What? What, Geralt?'
'Death,' Vesemir said gently. 'Death, child.'
Triss glanced at Ciri, who was shrilly accusing Coen of cheating. Coen put his arms around her and burst out laughing. The magician suddenly realised that she had never, up until now, heard any of the witchers laugh.
'For whom?' she asked briefly, still gazing at Coen.
'Him,' said Vesemir.
'And me,' Geralt added. And smiled.
'When she woke up-'
