clever to lead Rience to the Trail. I repeat, Rience is to organise the assassination immediately, to take the witcher out of the game at once. He's to kill him, and then disappear, bide his time and await my orders. If he comes across the enchantress's trail before that he is to leave her alone. Not a hair on Yennefer's head is to be harmed. Have you remembered that, Coehoorn?'
'Yes, sir.'
'The communique is to be coded and firmly secured against any magical deciphering. Forewarn the wizards about this. If they bungle it, if any undesirables learn of my order, I will hold them responsible.'
'Yes, sir.' The marshal hawked and pulled himself up straight.
'What else, Coehoorn?'
'The count… He is here already, your Highness. He came at your command.'
'Already?' He smiled. 'Such speed is worthy of admiration. I hope he didn't exhaust that black horse of his everyone envies so much. Have him come in.'
'Am I to be present during the conversation, your Highness?'
'Of course, Governor of Cintra.'
Summoned from the antechambers, the knight entered the chamber with an energetic, strong and noisy stride, his black armour grating. He stopped short, drew himself up proudly, threw his wet, muddy black cloak back from his shoulder, and laid his hand on the hilt of his mighty sword. He leaned his black helmet, adorned with wings of a bird of prey, on his hip. Coehoorn looked at the knight's face. He saw there the hard pride of a warrior, and impudence. He did not see any of the things that should have been visible in the face of one who had spent the past two years incarcerated in a place from which – as everything had indicated -he would only leave for the scaffold. A faint smile touched the marshal's lips. He knew that the disdain for death and crazy courage of youngsters stemmed from a lack of imagination. He knew that perfectly well. He had once been such a youngster himself.
The man sitting at the table rested his chin on his interlaced fingers and looked at the knight intently. The youngster pulled himself up taut as a string.
'In order for everything to be perfectly clear,' the man behind the table addressed him, 'you should understand that the mistake you made in this town two years ago has not been forgiven. You are getting one more chance. You are getting one more order. My decision as to your ultimate fate depends on the way in which you carry it out.'
The young knight's face did not twitch, and nor did a single feather on the wings adorning the helmet at his hip.
'I never deceive anyone, I never give anyone false illusions,' continued the man. 'So let it be known that, naturally, the prospect of saving your neck from the executioner's axe exists only if you do not make a mistake this time. Your chances of a full pardon are small. Your chances of my forgiving and forgetting are… nonexistent.'
The young knight in the black armour did not flinch this time either, but Coehoorn detected the flash in his eyes. He doesn't believe him, he thought. He doesn't believe him and is deluding himself. He is making a great mistake.
'I command your full attention,' continued the man behind the table. 'Yours, too, Coehoorn, because the orders I am about to give concern you too. They come in a moment, for I have to give some thought to their substance and delivery.'
Marshal Menno Coehoorn, Governor of the Province of Cintra and future Commander-in-Chief of the Dol Angra army, lifted his head and stood to attention, his hand on the pommel of his sword. The same attitude was assumed by the knight in black armour
with the bird-of-prey-winged helmet. They both waited. In silence. Patiently. The way one should wait for orders, the substance and presentation of which were being pondered by the Emperor of Nilfgaard, Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flame Dancing on the Grave-Mounds of Enemies.
Ciri woke.
She was lying, or rather half-sitting, with her head resting high on several pillows. The compresses on her forehead had grown warm and only slightly damp. She threw them off, unable to bear their unpleasant weight and their stinging against her skin. She found it hard to breathe. Her throat was dry and her nose almost completely blocked with clots of blood. But the elixirs and spells had worked – the pain which had exploded within her skull and dimmed her sight a few hours ago had disappeared and given way to a dull throbbing and a sensation of pressure on her temples.
Carefully she touched her nose with the back of her hand. It was no longer bleeding.
What a strange dream I had, she thought. The first dream for many days. The first where I wasn't afraid. The first which wasn't about me. I was an… observer. I saw everything as if from above, from high up… As if I were a bird… A night bird…
A dream in which I saw Geralt.
In the dream it was night. And the rain, which furrowed the surface of the canal, spattered on the shingle roofs and thatches of sheds, glistened on the planks of foot-bridges and the decks of boats and barges… And Geralt was there. Not alone. There was a man with him in a funny hat with a feather, limp from the damp. And a slim girl in a green cloak with a hood… All three were walking slowly and carefully along a wet foot-bridge… And I saw them from above. As if I were a bird. A night bird…
Geralt had stopped short. 'Is it still far?' he had asked. 'No,' the slim girl had answered, shaking the water off her green cloak. 'We're almost there… Hey, Dandilion, don't lag behind or you'll get lost in these cul-dc-sacs… And where the hell is Philippa? I
saw her a moment ago, she was flying alongside the canal… What foul weather… Let's go. Lead on, Shani. And between you and me, where do you know this charlatan from? What have you got to do with him?'
'I sometimes sell him medicaments looted from the college workshop. What are you staring at me like that for? My stepfather can barely pay for my tuition… I sometimes need a little money… And the charlatan, having real medicaments, treats people… Or at least he doesn't poison them… Well, let's get going.'
Strange dream, thought Ciri. Shame I woke up. I'd like to have seen what was going to happen… I'd like to know what they were doing there. Where they were going…
From the chamber next door came the sound of voices, the voices which had woken her. Mother Nenneke was speaking quickly, clearly worked up, agitated and angry. 'You betrayed my trust,' she was saying. 'I shouldn't have allowed it. I might have guessed that your dislike of her would lead to disaster. I shouldn't have allowed you to- Because, after all, I know you. You're ruthless, you're cruel, and to make matters worse, it turns out you're also irresponsible and careless. You're torturing that child mercilessly, forcing her to try things which she can't possibly do. You've no heart.
'You really have no heart, Yennefer.'
Ciri pricked up her ears, wanting to hear the enchantress's reply, her cold, hard and melodious voice. Wanting to hear how she reacted, how she sneered at the high priestess, how she ridiculed her over-protectiveness. She wanted to hear her say what she usually said – that using magic is no joke, that it isn't an occupation for young ladies made of porcelain, for dolls blown from thin glass. But Yennefer answered quietly, so quietly that the girl could neither understand nor even make out the individual words.
I'll fall asleep, she thought, carefully and delicately feeling her nose which was still tender, painful and blocked with clotted blood. I'll go back to my dream. I'll see what Geralt is doing there, in the night, in the rain, by the canal…
Yennefer was holding her by the hand. They were both walking
down a long, dark corridor, between stone columns or, perhaps, statues. Ciri could not make out their forms in the thick darkness. But there was someone there, in that darkness, someone hiding and observing them as they walked. She heard whispers, quiet as the rustle of the wind.
Yennefer was holding her by the hand, walking briskly and assuredly, full of decisiveness, so much so that Ciri could barely keep up with her. Doors opened before them in succession, one after another. An infinite number of doors with gigantic, heavy leaves opened up before them noiselessly.
The darkness thickened. Ciri saw yet another great door in front of her. Yennefer did not slow her stride but Ciri suddenly knew that this door would not open of its own accord. And she suddenly had an overwhelming certainty that this door must not be opened. That she must not go through it. That, behind this door, something was waiting for her…
