'A war?' Ciri shoved her hair back from her forehead. 'With who? Nilfgaard?'
'I didn't hear,' the novice admitted. 'But the greeve said our duke had received orders from King Foltest himself. He's sending out a call to arms and all the roads are swarming with soldiers. Oh dear! What's going to happen?'
'If there's going to be a war,' said Eurneid, 'then it'll most certainly be with Nilfgaard. Who else? Again! Oh gods, that's terrible!'
'Aren't you exaggerating a bit with this war, Iola?' Ciri scattered some grains for the chickens and guinea-hens crowding around them in a busy, noisy whirl. 'Maybe it's only another raid on the Scoia'tael?'
'Mother Nenneke asked the greeve the same thing,' declared Iola the Second. 'And the greeve said that no, this time it wasn't about the Squirrels. Castles and citadels have apparently been ordered to store supplies in case of a siege. But elves attack in forests, they don't lay siege to castles! The greeve asked whether the Temple could give more cheese and other things. For the castle stores. And he demanded goose feathers. They need a lot of goose feathers, he said. For arrows. To shoot from bows, understand? Oh, gods! We're going to have masses of work! You'll see! We'll be up to our ears in work!'
'Not all of us,' said Eurneid scathingly. 'Some aren't going to get their little hands dirty. Some of us only work two days a week. They don't have any time for work because they are, apparently,
studying witchery. But in actual fact they're probably only idling or skipping around the park thrashing weeds with a stick. You know who I'm talking about, Ciri, don't you?'
'Ciri will leave for the war no doubt,' giggled Iola the Second. 'After all, she is apparently the daughter of a knight! And herself a great warrior with a terrible sword! At last she'll be able to cut real heads off instead of nettles!'
'No, she is a powerful wizard!' Eurneid wrinkled her little nose. 'She's going to change all our enemies into field mice. Ciri! Show us some amazing magic. Make yourself invisible or make the carrots ripen quicker. Or do something so that the chickens can feed themselves. Well, go on, don't make us ask! Cast a spell!'
'Magic isn't for show,' said Ciri angrily. 'Magic is not some street market trick.'
'But of course, of course,' laughed the novice. 'Not for show. Eh, Iola? It's exactly as if I were hearing that hag Yennefer talk!'
'Ciri is getting more and more like her,' appraised Iola, sniffing ostentatiously. 'She even smells like her. Huh, no doubt some magical scent made of mandrake or ambergris. Do you use magical scents, Ciri?'
'No! I use soap! Something you rarely use!'
'Oh ho.' Eurneid twisted her lips. 'What sarcasm, what spite! And what airs!'
'She never used to be like this,' Iola the Second puffed up. 'She became like this when she started spending time with that witch. She sleeps with her, eats with her, doesn't leave her side. She's practically stopped attending lessons at the Temple and no longer has a moment to spare for us!'
'And we have to do all the work for her! Both in the kitchen and in the garden! Look at her little hands, Iola! Like a princess!'
'That's the way it is!' squeaked Ciri. 'Some have brains, so they get a book! Others are feather-brained, so they get a broom!'
'And you only use a broom for flying, don't you? Pathetic wizard!'
'You're stupid!'
'Stupid yourself!'
'No, I'm not!'
'Yes, you are! Come on, Iola, don't pay any attention to her. Sorceresses are not our sort of company.'
'Of course they aren't!' yelled Ciri and threw the basket of grain on the ground. 'Chickens are your sort of company!'
The novices turned up their noses and left, passing through the hoard of cackling fowl.
Ciri cursed loudly, repeating a favourite saying of Vesemir's which she did not entirely understand. Then she added a few words she had heard Yarpen Zigrin use, the meanings of which were a total mystery to her. With a kick, she dispersed the chickens swarming towards the scattered grain, picked up the basket, turned it upside down, then twirled in a witcher's pirouette and threw the basket like a discus over the reed roof of the henhouse. She turned on her heel and set off through the Temple park at a run.
She ran lightly, skilfully controlling her breath. At every other tree she passed, she made an agile half-turn leap, marking slashes with an imaginary sword and immediately following them with dodges and feints she had learned. She jumped deftly over the fence, landing surely and softly on bent knees.
'Jarre!' she shouted, turning her head up towards a window gaping in the stone wall of the tower. 'Jarre, are you there? Hey! It's me!'
'Ciri?' The boy leaned out. 'What are you doing here?'
'Can I come up and see you?'
'Now? Hmm… Well, all right then… Please do.'
She flew up the stairs like a hurricane, catching the novice unexpectedly just as, with his back turned, he was quickly adjusting his clothes and hiding some parchments on the table under other parchments. Jarre ran his fingers through his hair, cleared his throat and bowed awkwardly. Ciri slipped her thumbs into her belt and tossed her ashen fringe.
'What's this war everybody's talking about?' she fired. 'I want to know!'
'Please, have a seat.'
She cast her eyes around the chamber. There were four large
tables piled with large books and scrolls. There was only one chair. Also piled high.
'War?' mumbled Jarre. 'Yes, I've heard those rumours… Are you interested in it? You, a g-? No, don't sit on the table, please, I've only just got all the documents in order… Sit on the chair. Just a moment, wait, I'll take those books… Does Lady Yennefer know you're here?'
'No.'
'Hmm… Or Mother Nenneke?'
Ciri pulled a face. She knew what he meant. The sixteen-year-old Jarre was the high priestess's ward, being prepared by her to be a cleric and chronicler. He lived in Ellander where he worked as a scribe at the municipal tribunal, but he spent more time in Melitele's sanctuary than in the town, studying, copying and illuminating volumes in the Temple library for whole days and sometimes even nights. Ciri had never heard it from Nenneke's lips but it was well known that the high priestess absolutely did not want Jarre to hang around her young novices. And vice-versa. But the novices, however, did sneak keen glances at the boy and chatted freely, discussing the various possibilities presented by the presence on the Temple grounds of something which wore trousers. Ciri was amazed because Jarre was the exact opposite of everything which, in her eyes, should represent an attractive male. In Cintra, as she remembered, an attractive man was one whose head reached the ceiling, whose shoulders were as broad as a doorway, who swore like a dwarf, roared like a buffalo and stank at thirty paces of horses, sweat and beer, regardless of what time of day or night it was. Men who did not correspond to this description were not recognised by Queen Calanthe's chambermaids as worthy of sighs and gossip. Ciri had also seen a number of different men the wise and gentle druids of Angren, the tall and gloomy settlers of Sodden, the witchers of Kaer Morhen. Jarre was different. He was as skinny as a stick-insect, ungainly, wore clothes which were too large and smelled of ink and dust, always had greasy hair and on his chin, instead of stubble, there were seven or eight long hairs, about half of which sprang from a large wart. Truly, Ciri did not understand why she was so drawn to Jarre's tower. She enjoyed talking to him, the boy knew a great deal and she could learn much from him. But recently, when he looked at her, his eyes had a strange, dazed and cloying expression.
'Well.' She grew impatient. 'Are you going to tell me or not?'
'There's nothing to say. There isn't going to be any war. It's all gossip.'
'Aha,' she snorted. 'And so the duke is sending out a call to arms just for fun? The army is marching the highways out of boredom? Don't twist things, Jarre. You visit the town and castle, you must know something!'
'Why don't you ask Lady Yennefer about it?'
'Lady Yennefer has more important things to worry about!' Ciri spat, but then immediately had second thoughts, smiled pleasantly and fluttered her eyelashes. 'Oh, Jarre, tell me, please! You're so clever! You can talk so beautifully and learnedly, I could listen to you for hours! Please, Jarre!'
The boy turned red and his eyes grew unfocused and bleary. Ciri sighed surreptitiously.
