Lady of the Lake

  ‘How long?’ said Condwiramurs. ‘How long do we have left, do you think? ‘

  ‘A lot.’

  ‘How much, Nimue?’

  ‘About three thousand years.’

  Somewhere on the lake, the Fisher King struck himself with the oar and cursed loudly. Nimue shook her head. Condwiramurs sighed.

  ‘I’ve calmed down a bit. But only a little.’

  The next place was one of the most horrible that Ciri had seen, it certainly placed in the top ten, and maybe even ahead of them. It was a port, she saw boats and galleys with springs and lines, she saw a forest of masts and saw sails hanging heavy in the still air. Around her twisted columns of smoke, smelly smoke.

  The smoke rose from crooked huts also standing along the port. In them she heard voices, the sound of crying children.

  Kelpie jumped, pulling hard on the reins and hitting her hooves hard on the cobblestones. Ciri looked down and saw dead rats. They were everywhere, some of the rodents were dead, other writhing in pain, with pale pink legs.

  Something is not right, she thought, suddenly feeling panic. Flee, run away from here as quickly as possible.

  Next to a pole where fishing nets hung a man was sitting on the ground. His shirt was torn across the chest, his head was laying on his shoulder. He did not look like he was sleeping. A few steps further on lay more people. They did not move when Kelpie’s horseshoes tinkled on the pavement right next to their heads. Ciri bent so that she could pass under clothes hanging on a clothesline. They reeked of the staleness of dirt.

  At the door to one of the huts was a cross painted with lime or white paint. Behind its roof, black smoke rode into the blue sky. A child was crying, someone shouted in the distance, someone closer was coughing and snorting. A dog howled.

  Ciri’s hands felt itchy. She looked down.

  Her hands were covered in black fleas.

  She screamed aloud. Trembling with fear and disgust, she became to violently wave her arms. She startled Kelpie, who took off at a gallop, Ciri nearly fell off. Clutching the side of the mare with her thighs she combed her fingers through her hair, ruffling it. She tore at her jacket and shirt. Kelpie continued to gallop through the smoke that blew across the street. Ciri screamed in horror.

  She was going through hell, the inferno, the most terrible of nightmares. Among the houses marked with white crosses. Among smoldering rags. Among the dead lying alone and those who were lying in piles, one on the other. And among the living, ragged, half-naked ghouls with sunken cheeks, crawling through the muck, screaming in a language she did not understand, stretching out their emaciated arms, covered in horrible bloody pustules…

  Run! Run away from here!

  Even in the black nothingness of nonexistence of the archipelago of places, Ciri smelt for a long time in her nostrils the smoke and the stench.

  The next place was also a port. But here I was spring and it had a channel, and in the channel were boats, scooters, yachts and a forest of masts. But in this place of masts, there were screaming gulls and it smelled of joyous normal home – wet wood, seawater and fish.

  On the deck of a boat, two men were fighting, screaming with excited voices.

  She understood everything that they were saying.

  They were arguing over the price of herring.

  Not far away stood a tavern, and from its doors came the musty smell of beer and loud voices, laughter and the clinking of glasses. Someone was singing a loud obscene song.

  Luned, c’ard t’elaine arse

  Aen a meáth ail aén sparse!

  She knew where she was. Before she read the name on the stern of one of the galleys – Evall Muire. And it port of origin – Baccala. She knew where she was.

  In Nilfgaard.

  She fled before anyone paid her any attention.

  However, before she was immersed into nothingness, a flea, which had jumped on her shirt at the last place and followed her through space and time, jumped from her shirt onto the pier.

  The flea settled onto the bare skin of a rat, an old male mousy veteran of many wars, which was testified by his torn ear. That evening the rat and flea boarded a vessel. And the next morning they sailed the high seas. The ship they boarded was old and dirty and bore the name “Catriona”. That name would go down in history. But nobody knew anything about that yet.

  The next place, though she could hardly believe it, surprised her with a truly idyllic image. It was a quiet riverside, with a lazy stream flowing among the willows, alders and oaks which leant over the water. Next to a bridge with a delicate stone arch linking the two shores stood a wild vine covered inn.

  Above the door swung a sign with large gold letter, which Ciri did not know how to read. However, because of the inscription of a shield also nicely illustrated with a black cat on it, Ciri decided to call the tavern “The Black Cat”.

  Flowing from the tavern was the smell of food. Ciri almost fell into a swoon. It didn’t take her long to decide. She adjusted the sword on her back and stepped inside.

  The tap room was empty, only one table sat three men, who at first glance appeared to be villagers. They did not even look at Ciri who out of habit sat in a corner with her back to the wall.

  The landlady, a stout woman with a spotless apron and a cap, came up to her and asked something. Her voice was thunderous but melodious. Ciri poked one finger towards her mouth and patted her stomach, then took a silver button from her blouse and laid it on the table. Seeing the surprised expression on the woman’s face she was about to pluck a second button, but the woman stopped her with a gesture.

  The silver button provided her with a heavy casserole and vegetable soup, a pot of timber beans and smoked meat, bread and a jug of watered wine.

  From the first tablespoon, Ciri thought she was going to cry. But she controlled herself. She ate slowly. Relishing it all.

  The landlady came over and asked her a ringing question, and put her hands to her cheek. She wanted to know if she was staying the night.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ciri. ‘Maybe. In any case, that you for the invitation.’

  The woman smiled and walked into the kitchen.

  Ciri undid her belt and leaned back against the wall. She wondered what to do next. This place, in contrast to some previous ones, was pleasant and she was tempted to stay longer. However, experience had taught her that excessive confidence can be dangerous and a lack of vigilance can be fatal.

  From out of nowhere a black cat appeared, exactly the same as the one on the signboard. It arched its back and rubbed itself on her calf. She stroked the cat and he pushed his head into her palm, then settled down beside her and began to lick his fur. Ciri watched.

  She saw Jarre sitting next to a fire in a circle with ugly rogues. They all nibbled at something that resembled a piece of coal.

  ‘Jarre?’

  ‘It has to be this way,’ said the boy while watching the dancing flames. ‘I read about it in the History of War, Marshal Pelligram’s work. So it is necessary when the country is in danger.’

  ‘What is necessary? Eating coal?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly so. The motherland calls. And partly for personal reasons.’

  ‘Ciri, do not fall asleep in the saddle,’ Yennefer said. ‘We have arrived.’

  They had arrived at a city, where the doors and gates of the houses had painted white crosses on the. They rode into a dense, suffocation smoke, coming from the bodies of the dead who were being burned. Yennefer didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘I have to beautify.’

  Before her face, above the ears of her horse appeared mirror. It danced in the air and along with a brush that combed her raven tresses. Yennefer only uses magic, and not her hands, because…

  Her hands were covered in masses of clotted blood.

  ‘Mother! What did they do?’

  ‘Get up, girl,’ Coën says. ‘Master the pain, get up again on the comb. Otherwise you’ll catch fear. Do you want to be afraid the rest of your life? ‘ r />
  His yellow eyes shine in an unpleasant manner. His sharp, white teeth flash. Then it’s not Coën. It is a cat, a black cat…

  A column of an army, many miles long, marches above them wave a forest of spears and banners. Jarre has a round helmet on his head and a pike on his shoulder, which he has to hold with both hands otherwise the weight would unbalance him. Drums and bagpipes echo, and thunder the songs of war. Above the column crows fly. Many crows…

  A lake shore, a field of reeds. An island on the lake. On the island a tower with jagged battlements. Above the tower, in the darkening evening sky, the moon shines, and makes the tower glow. On the balcony is sitting two women wrapped in furs. A man fishes on a boat…

  A tapestry and a mirror.

  Cir lifted her head with a jerk. In front of her sitting at the table is Eredin Bréacc Glas.

  ‘You should know,’ he said, grinning with his even teeth, ‘that you are only delaying the inevitable. You belong to us and we’ll find you.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You will come back to us. You have seen a couple of times and places, but sooner or later you’ll get to the Spiral. And the Spiral is ours. You will never get back to your world and time. After all, it is already too late, you have nothing to return to. The people that you knew are long dead, their graves overgrown with grass and their names forgotten. Your name too…’

  ‘You’re lying! I do not believe you!’

  ‘You belief is you thing. But know that soon you will come to the Spiral and I’ll be there waiting. Admit that you secretly long for me, me elaine luned.’

  ‘You are delusional!’

  ‘We, Aen Elle, perceive such things. You were fascinated with me, and you were afraid of your desires. You still want me, Zireael. My hands, their touch…’

  He jumped to her feet, overturning her cup, fortunately empty and grabbed her sword. She immediately calmed down. She was in the “Black Cat” inn. She had fallen asleep at the table. The hand that had touched her hair, was the landlady’s. Ciri was not fond of this kind of contact, but the woman simply radiated kindness, for which Ciri could not repay with rudeness. She allowed her to stroke her head, with a smile and listened to her melodious speech. She was tired.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said at last.

  The woman smiled and spoke in her singsong voice.

  How is it possible, thought Ciri, in all the worlds, places and times, in all languages and dialects, this word is always understandable? And always the same?

  ‘Yes, I have to. My mother is waiting for me.’

  The landlady escorted her into the yard. Before Ciri could jump into the saddle, she suddenly hugged her tightly pressing her into her plump breasts.

  ‘Goodbye. Thank you for your hospitality. Forward, Kelpie.’

  She went straight over the arched bridge over the calm river. When the mare’s horseshoes rang on the stones, he looked up. The woman was still standing at the front of the inn.

  Concentration, fists on her temples. A noise in her ears like the sound of a sea shell. A flash. Soft black nothingness.

  ‘Good luck, my girl,’ There's Lapin, owner of the pub Au Chat Noir in Pont-sur-Yonne on the road from Melun to Auxerre.

  ‘Godspeed!’

  Concentration, fist on her temples. A noise in her ears like the sound of a sea shell. A flash. Soft, black nothingness.

  Places. A lake. An island. The moon like a half thaler, it’s brilliance glowing over the water of a lake. The mast of a boat with a man fishing…

  On the terrace of the tower… Two women?

  Condwiramurs could not stand it, she shouted with excitement and then immediately covered her mouth with her hand. The Fisher King dropped his nets with a splash and the swore terribly then with his mouth open he froze. Nimue did not move.

  On the surface of the lake, on a ray of moonlight Appeared a black horse with a rider on her back.

  Minue calmly reached out and shouted a spell. The tapestry on the wall in the room bust into multicolored lights. The lights reflected in the oval mirror, danced on the walls like colored bees and then sailed out of the room like a rainbow, as light as a ribbon that lit up the lake like the first rays of dawn.

  The black mare lifted her head and whinnied loudly. Nimue abruptly extended her hands and shouted another spell. Condwiramurs saw an image forming in the air, growing more tightly focused. The image immediately popped into focus. Then became a portal. A gate, beyond which they could see...

  A plain full of shipwrecks. A castle stuck on a sharp cliff, lording over the dark mirror of a mountain lake...

  'Over there!' Nimue shouted loudly. 'This is the path that you must follow! Ciri, Pavetta's daughter! Enter the portal, follow the path that leads to your meeting with fate! That closes the wheel of time! Let Uroboros bit his own tail. Do not wander anymore! Hurry to help your loved ones! This is the right way to go, witcheress!'

  The mare snickered and buried her hooves in the air. The girl in the saddle, turned her head, looking alternatively at them and the image produced by the tapestry and mirror. She tossed her hair from her face, on which Condwiramurs saw the scar.

  'Believe me, Ciri,' cried Nimue. 'You know me! We've seen each other once already!'

  'I remember,' they heard her answer. 'I believe you. Thank you.'

  They watched her spur the mare towards the portal. Before the image faded, the ashen haired girl turned in the saddle and waved.

  Then everything disappeared. The lake was calm, the bar of moonlight settled. It was so quiet, they thought they could hear the loud breathing of the Fisher King.

  Nimue refrained from tears and tightly embraced Condwiramurs. She like a little trembling fairy. They remained in the embrace for some time. Without words they both turned and looked at the place where the Gate of Worlds had disappeared.

  'Godspeed, witcheress!' they cried in unison. 'Good luck on your journey!'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Not far from the battlefield, where that terrible battle between almost the entire North was facing almost all of the aggressor Nilfgaard’s power, there were two fishermen villages – Old Butts and Brenna. However, since Brenna was burned to the ground, people used to talk about the “Battle of Old Butts”. Today, however, it is referred to as the “Battle of Brenna” for two reasons – First, Brenna is now restored and is now a prosperous settlement, while Old Butts was abandoned by its inhabitants a long time ago and is now overgrown with nettles and weeds. Secondly – the original name in the context of that grand and tragic struggle seemed extremely awkward, as if it were not enough that roughly thirty thousand unfortunates gave their lives but with their butts, that were old.

  So, in historical literature the military has taken to calling it the “Battle of Brenna” and not just in our writings but in Nilfgaard’s who have many more sources than ours.

  Reverend Jarre the Elder of Ellander

  Annales seu Cronicae Incliti Regni Temeriae

  ‘Cadet Fitz-Oesterlen, you’ve fail. Sit down. I would like to draw your attention to this cadet’s ignorance of important and famous events from the history of his native country that every good citizen and patriot should know, but for a future office is simply inexcusable. And one more thing, cadet. For twenty years I have worked at this school and I do not remember even a single semester when an exam hasn’t had a question about the Battle of Brenna. Your ignorance practically eliminates your chances for a military career, but when you become a baron, there is no obligation to become an officer, so maybe you can try your hand at politics. Or diplomacy. I wish this wholeheartedly, Cadet Fitz-Oesterlen. The rest of us will get back to the Battle of Brenna, gentlemen. Cadet Puttkammer!’

  ‘Present!’

  ‘To the map, please and continue. From where the lord Baron’s knowledge failed.’

  ‘As ordered! When Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn heard the reports from the secret service confirming that the Nordlings' armies were coming to aid the besieged fortress of Mayena, he decided
to make a quick march to the west. His plan was to cut off the enemy troops and to force them into a decisive battle. For this purpose he distributed the Center Group Army. Some of his forces he left at Mayena, the rest of his forces rapid marched...’

  ‘Cadet Puttkammer! Are you a writer of historical fiction or a future military commander? What is the name for “the rest of his forces”? Please give me the exact battle orders of Marshal Coehoorn’s strike team. Using military terminology!’

  ‘Yes, commander. Field Marshal Coehoorn had at that time, two armies – the Fourth Cavalry Army, led by Major General Marcus Braibant, patron of our school...’

  ‘Very good, Cadet Puttkammer.’

  ‘Fucking toady,’ Cadet Fitz-Oesterlen hissed from his bench.

  ‘...And the Third Army, commanded by Lieutenant General Rhetz de Mellis-Stoke. The Fourth Cavalry Army, with a strength of twenty thousand soldiers was comprised of the following units – the Venendal Division, the Magne Division, the Frundsberg Division, the Second Vicovaro Brigade, the Seventh Daerlan Brigade, the Nauzicaa Division and the Vrihedd Brigade. The Third Army was composed of the Alba Division, the Deithwen Division and... umm. The Division...’

  ‘The Ard Feainn Division,’ said Julia Abatemarco. ‘If your men didn’t mistake anything. They really had banners with silver suns on them?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ said the commander of the scouts, without hesitation.

  ‘So, Ard Feainn,’ mused Pretty Kitty. ‘That’s interesting. This means that in the three marching columns that you saw, not only is the Fourth Army coming against us, but most of the Third as well. I do not believe it; I have to see it with my own eyes. Captain, take over command during my absence. Send out immediately a transmission to Colonel Pangratt…’

  ‘Colonel Abatemarco, is it reasonable for you to personally…’

  ‘That’s an order!’

  ‘As you command!’