Skellige. About how she learned about the Law of Surprise and that fate had decreed her to be the destiny of Geralt of Rivia, the white-haired witcher. She recalled the war, her exile in the forests of Transriver, her time among the druids of Angren and the time spent in the country. How Geralt had found her there and taken her to Kaer Morhen, the Witchers' Keep, thus opening a new chapter in her short life.
One evening, of her own initiative, unasked, casually, joyfully and embellishing a great deal, she told the enchantress about her first meeting with the witcher in Brokilon Forest, amongst the dryads who had abducted her and wanted to force her to stay and become one of them.
'Oh!' said Yennefer on listening to the story, 'I'd give a lot to see that – Geralt, I mean. I'm trying to imagine the expression on his face in Brokilon, when he saw what sort of Surprise destiny had concocted for him! Because he must have had a wonderful expression when he found out who you were?'
Ciri giggled and her emerald eyes lit up devilishly.
'Oh, yes!' she snorted. 'What an expression! Do you want to see? I'll show you. Look at me!'
Yennefer burst out laughing.
That laughter, thought Ciri watching swarms of black birds flying eastwards, that laughter, shared and sincere, really brought us together, her and me. We understood ~ both she and I – that we can laugh and talk together about him. About Geralt. Suddenly we became close, although I knew perfectly well that Geralt both brought us together and separated us, and that that's how it would always be.
Our laughter together brought us closer to each other.
As did the events two days later. In the forest, on the hills. She was showing me how to find.
'I don't understand why I have to look for these… I've forgotten what they're called again…'
'Intersections,' prompted Yennefer, picking off the burrs which had attached themselves to her sleeve as they crossed the scrubs.
'I am showing you how to find them because they're places from which you can draw the force.'
'But I know how to draw the force already! And you taught me yourself that the force is everywhere. So why are we roaming around in the bushes? After all, there's a great deal of force in the Temple!'
'Yes, indeed, there is a fair amount there. That's exactly why the Temple was built there and not somewhere else. And that's why, on Temple grounds, drawing it seems so easy to you.'
'My legs hurt! Can we sit down for a while?'
'All right, my ugly one.'
'Lady Yennefer?'
'Yes?'
'Why do we always draw the force from water veins? Magical energy, after all, is everywhere. It's in the earth, isn't it? In air, in fire?'
'True.'
'And earth… Here, there's plenty of earth around here. Under our feet. And air is everywhere! And should we want fire, it's enough to light a bonfire and…'
You are still too weak to draw energy from the earth. You still don't know enough to succeed in drawing anything from air. And as for fire, I absolutely forbid you to play with it. I've already told you, under no circumstances are you allowed to touch the energy of fire!'
'Don't shout. I remember.'
They sat in silence on a fallen dry tree trunk, listening to the wind rustling in the tree tops, listening to a woodpecker hammering away somewhere close-by. Ciri was hungry and her saliva was thick from thirst, but she knew that complaining would not get her anywhere. In the past, a month ago, Yennefer had reacted to such complaints with a dry lecture on how to control such primitive instincts; later, she had ignored them in contemptuous silence. Protesting was just as useless and produced as few results as sulking over being called 'ugly one'.
The magician plucked the last burr from her sleeve. She's going
to ask me something in a moment, thought Ciri, I can hear her thinking about it. She's going to ask about something I don't remember again. Or something I don't want to remember. No, it's senseless. I'm not going to answer. All of that is in the past, and there's no returning to the past. She once said so herself.
'Tell me about your parents, Ciri.'
'I can't remember them, Lady Yennefer.'
'Please try to.'
'I really don't remember my papa…' she said in a quiet voice, succumbing to the command. 'Except… Practically nothing. My mama… My mama, I do. She had long hair, like this… And she was always sad… I remember… No, I don't remember anything…'
'Try to remember, please.'
'I can't!'
'Look at my star.'
Seagulls screamed, diving down between the fishing boats where they caught scourings and tiny fish emptied from the crates. The wind gently fluttered the lowered sails of the drakkars, and smoke, quelled by drizzle, floated above the landing-stage. Triremes from Cintra were sailing into the port, golden lions glistening on blue flags. Uncle Crach, who was standing next to her with his hand -as large as the paw of a grizzly bear – on her shoulder, suddenly fell to one knee. Warriors, standing in rows, rhythmically struck their shields with their swords.
Along the gang-plank towards them came Queen Calanthe. Her grandmother. She who was officially called Ard Rhena, the Highest Queen, on the Isles of Skellige. But Uncle Crach an Craite, the Earl of Skellige, still kneeling with bowed head, greeted the Lioness of Cintra with a title which was less official but considered by the islanders to be more venerable.
'Hail, Modron.'
'Princess,' said Calanthe in a cold and authoritative voice, without so much as a glance at the earl, 'come here. Come here to me, Ciri.'
Her grandmother's hand was as strong and hard as a man's, her rings cold as ice.
'Where is Eist?'
'The King…' stammered Crach. 'Is at sea, Modron. He is looking for the remains… And the bodies. Since yesterday…'
'Why did he let them?' shouted the queen. 'How could he allow it? How could you allow it, Crach? You're the Earl of Skellige! No drakkar is allowed to go out to sea without your permission! Why did you allow it, Crach?'
Uncle Crach bowed his head even lower.
'Horses!' said Calanthe. 'We're going to the fort. And tomorrow, at dawn, I am setting sail. I am taking the princess to Cintra. I will never allow her to return here. And you… You have a huge debt to repay me, Crach. One day I will demand repayment.'
'I know, Modron.'
'If I do not claim it, she will do so.' Calanthe looked at Ciri. 'You will repay the debt to her, Earl. You know how.'
Crach an Craite got to his feet, straightened himself and the features of his weatherbeaten face hardened. With a swift move, he drew from its sheath a simple, steel sword devoid of ornaments and pulled up the sleeve his left arm, marked with thickened white scars.
'Without the dramatic gestures,' snorted the queen. 'Save your blood. I said: one day. Remember!'
'Aen me Glaeddyv, zvaere a'Bloedgeas, Ard Rhena, Lionors aep Xintra!' Crach an Craite, the Earl of the Isles of Skellige, raised his arms and shook his sword. The warriors roared hoarsely and beat their weapons against their shields.
'I accept your oath. Lead the way to the fort, Earl.'
Ciri remembered King Eist's return, his stony, pale face. And the queen's silence. She remembered the gloomy, horrible feast at which the wild, bearded sea wolves of Skellige slowly got drunk in terrifying silence. She remembered the whispers. 'Geas Muire… Geas Muire!'
She remembered the trickles of dark beer poured onto the floor, the horns smashed against the stone walls of the hall in bursts of desperate, helpless, senseless anger. 'Geas Muire! Pavetta!'
Pavetta, the Princess of Cintra, and her husband, Prince Duny.
Ciri's parents. Perished. Killed. Geas Muire, the Curse of the Sea, had killed them. They had been swallowed
