‘I can’t help you, Little Horse,’ she said in a stifled voice. ‘I don’t have anything . . .’
Except magic.
I’m an enchantress.
She stood up and held out a hand. Nothing happened. She needed a great deal of magical energy, but there wasn’t a trace of any here. She hadn’t expected that. It astonished her.
But wait, there are water veins everywhere!
She took a few paces, first in one direction and then in the other. She began to walk around in a circle. She stepped backwards.
Nothing.
‘You damned desert!’ she shouted, shaking her fists. ‘There’s nothing in you! No water and no magic! And magic was supposed to be everywhere! That was a lie too! Everybody deceived me, everybody!’
The unicorn neighed.
Magic is everywhere. It’s in water, in the earth, in the air . . .
And in fire.
Ciri slammed her fist angrily against her forehead. It hadn’t occurred to her earlier perhaps because, among the bare rocks, there hadn’t even been anything to burn. But now she had a supply of dry thistles and stalks, and in order to create a tiny spark she ought only to need the tiny amount of energy she could still feel inside . . .
She gathered more sticks, arranged them in a heap and piled dry thistles around them. She cautiously put her hand in.
‘Aenye!’
The pile of sticks glowed brightly, a flame flickered, then flared up, set the leaves on fire, consumed them and shot upwards. Ciri threw on more dry stalks.
What now? she thought, looking at the flame coming back to life. Now to gather the energy. But how? Yennefer has forbidden me from touching fire energy . . . But I don’t have a choice! Or any time! I have to act now; the sticks and leaves are burning fast . . . the fire will go out . . . Fire . . . how beautiful it is, how warm . . .
She didn’t know when or how it happened. As she stared at the flames she suddenly felt a pounding in her temples. She clutched her breast, feeling as though her ribcage would burst. A pain throbbed in her belly, her crotch and her nipples, which instantly transformed into horrifying pleasure. She stood up. No, she didn’t stand up. She floated up.
The Power filled her like molten lead. The stars in the sky danced like stars reflected on the surface of a pond. The Eye, burning in the west, exploded with light. She took that light and with it the Force.
‘Hael, Aenye!’
The unicorn neighed in a frenzy and tried to spring up, pushing with its forehooves. Ciri’s arm rose automatically, her hand formed a gesture involuntarily, and her mouth shouted out the spell of its own accord. Bright, undulating light streamed from her fingers. The fire roared with great flames.
The waves of light streaming from her hand touched the unicorn’s injured thigh, converging and penetrating.
‘I wish you to be healed! That is my wish! Vess’hael, Aenye!’
The Power exploded inside her and she was filled with a wild euphoria. The fire shot upwards, and everything became bright around her. The unicorn raised his head, neighed and then suddenly leapt up from the ground, taking a few awkward paces. He bent his neck, swung his head towards his thigh, quivered his nostrils and snorted as if in disbelief. He neighed loud and long, kicked his hooves, swished his tail and galloped around the fire.
‘I’ve healed you!’ cried Ciri proudly. ‘I’ve healed you! I’m a sorceress! I managed to draw the power from the fire! And I have that power! I can do anything I want!’
She turned away. The blazing fire roared, shooting sparks.
‘We don’t have to look for any more springs! We don’t have to drink scooped-up mud any longer! I have the power now! I feel the power that’s in this fire! I’ll make rain fall on this accursed desert! I’ll make it gush from the rocks! I’ll make flowers grow here! Grass! Cabbages! I can do anything now! Anything!’
She lifted both arms, screaming out spells and chanting invocations. She didn’t understand them, didn’t remember when she had learnt them – or even if she’d ever learnt them. That was unimportant. She felt power, felt strength, was burning with fire. She was the fire. She trembled with the power that had pervaded her.
The night sky was suddenly riven by a slash of lightning. A wind whipped up among the rocks and thistles. The unicorn gave a long neigh and reared up. The fire roared upwards, exploding. The sticks and stems had charred long before; now the rock itself was afire. But Ciri paid no attention to it. She felt power. She saw only the fire. She heard only the fire.
You can do anything, whispered the flames. You are in possession of our power. You can do anything. The world is at your feet. You are great. You are mighty.
There was a figure among the flames. A tall, young woman with long, straight, coal-black hair. The woman smiled, wildly, cruelly, and the fire writhed and danced around her.
You are mighty! Those that harmed you did not know who they had challenged! Avenge yourself! Make them pay! Make them all pay! Let them tremble with fear at your feet, teeth chattering, not daring to look you in the face! Let them beg for mercy but do not grant it to them! Make them pay! Make them pay for everything! Revenge!
Behind the black-haired woman there was fire and smoke and, in the smoke, rows of gallows, rows of sharpened stakes, scaffolds, mountains of corpses. They were the corpses of Nilfgaardians, of those who had captured and plundered Cintra and killed King Eist and her grandmother Calanthe, of those who had murdered people in the streets of the city. A knight in black armour swung on a gibbet. The noose creaked and crows fought each other to peck at his eyes through his winged helmet’s visor. Other gibbets stretched away towards the horizon, and on them hung Scoia’tael, those who killed Paulie Dahlberg in Kaedwen, and those who’d pursued Ciri on the Isle of Thanedd. The sorcerer Vilgefortz danced on a towering stake, his beautiful, fraudulently noble face contorted and blue-black with suffering. The sharpened, bloodstained point of the stake protruded from his collarbone . . . Other sorcerers from Thanedd were kneeling on the ground, their hands tied behind their backs and sharpened stakes awaiting them . . .
Stakes piled high with bundles of firewood rose up all the way to the burning horizon, marked by ribbons of smoke. Chained to the nearest stake was . . . Triss Merigold. Beyond her was Margarita Laux-Antille . . . Mother Nenneke . . . Jarre . . . Fabio Sachs . . .
No. No. No.
Yes, screamed the black-haired woman. Death to them all! Take your revenge on all of them. Despise them! They all harmed you or wanted to harm you! Or perhaps they will want to harm you in the future! Hold them in contempt, for at last the time of contempt is here! Contempt, revenge and death! Death to the entire world! Death, destruction and blood!
There is blood on your hand, blood on your dress . . .
They betrayed you! Tricked you! Harmed you! Now you have the power, so take revenge!
Yennefer’s mouth was cut and torn, pouring blood; her hands and feet were shackled, fastened to the wet, dirty walls of a dungeon by heavy chains. The mob around the scaffold shrieked, the poet Dandelion laid his head on the block, the blade of the executioner’s axe flashed above him. The street urchins crowded beneath the scaffold unfolded a kerchief to be spattered with blood . . . The screaming of the mob drowned out the noise of the blow, so powerful it made the scaffold shudder . . .
They betrayed you! They deceived and tricked you! To them you were a pawn, just a puppet on a stick! They used you! They condemned you to hunger, to the burning sun, to thirst, to misery and to loneliness! The time of contempt and revenge is come! You have the power! You are mighty! Let the whole world cower before thee! Let the whole world cower before the Elder Blood!
Now the witchers were being led onto the scaffold: Yesemir, Eskel, Coen, Lambert. And Geralt . . . Geralt was staggering, covered in blood . . .
‘No!’
Fire surrounded her, and beyond the wall of flames was a furious neighing. Unicorns were rearing, shaking their heads and dashing their hooves against the ground. Their manes
were like tattered battle flags, their horns were as long and sharp as swords. The unicorns were huge, as huge as warhorses, much bigger than her Little Horse. Where had they come from? Where had so many of them come from? The flame shot upwards with a roar. The black-haired woman raised her hands, and they were covered in blood. The heat billowed her hair.
Let it burn, Falka, let it all burn!
‘Go away! Be gone! I don’t want you! I don’t want your power!
Let it burn, Falka, let it burn!
‘I don’t want to!’
You do! You desire this! Desire and lust seethe in you like a flame! The pleasure is enslaving you! It is might! It is force! It is power! The most delicious of the world’s pleasures!
Lightning. Thunder. Wind. The thudding of hooves and the neighing of unicorns galloping with abandon around the fire.
‘I don’t want that power! I don’t want it! I relinquish it!’
She didn’t know if the fire had gone out or if her eyes had clouded over as she slumped to the ground, feeling the first drops of rain on her face.
The being should be divested of its beingness. It cannot be allowed to exist. The being is dangerous. Confirmation?
Negative. The being did not summon the Power for itself. It did it to save Ihuarraquax. The being feels sympathy. Thanks to the being, Ihuarraquax is once more among us.
But the being has the Power. Should it wish to make use of it . . .
It will not be able to use it. Never. It relinquished it. It relinquished the Power. Utterly. The Power disappeared. It is most curious . . .
We will never understand these beings.
We do not need to understand them! We will remove existence from the being. Before it is too late. Confirmation?
Negative. Let us leave this place. Let us leave the being. Let us leave it to its fate.
She did not know how long she lay on the rocks, trembling, staring at the changing colours of the sky. It was by turns dark and light, cold and hot, and she lay powerless, dried out like that dead rodent’s carcass sucked dry and thrown from the crater.
She did not think about anything. She was alone. She was empty. Now she had nothing and she felt nothing inside. There was no thirst, hunger, fatigue or fear. Everything had vanished, even the will to survive. She was one great, cold, dreadful void. She felt that void with all her being, with every cell of her body.
She felt blood on her inner thighs. She did not care. She was empty. She had lost everything.
The colour of the sky was changing. She did not move. Was there any point in moving in such a void?
She did not move when hooves thudded around her, when horseshoes clanged. She did not react to the loud cries and calls, to the excited voices, to the horses’ snorts. She did not move when hard, powerful hands seized her. When she was lifted, she drooped limply. She did not react to the jerking or the shaking, to the harsh, aggressive questions. She did not understand them and did not want to understand.
She was empty and indifferent. She reacted indifferently to water being splashed on her face. When a canteen was put to her mouth, she did not choke. She drank. Indifferently.
Neither did she care later. She was hauled up onto a saddle. Her crotch was tender and painful. She was shivering so she was wrapped in a blanket. She was numb and limp, on the verge of fainting, so she was fastened by a belt to the rider sitting behind her. The rider stank of sweat and urine. She did not care.
There were riders all around. Many riders. Ciri looked at them indifferently. She was empty. She had lost everything. Nothing mattered any longer.
Nothing.
Not even the fact that the knight in command of the riders wore a helmet decorated with the wings of a raptor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the fire was lit at the foot of the criminal’s pyre and the flames began to engulf her, she began to hurl abuse at the knights, barons, sorcerers and lord councillors gathered in the square; using such words that terror seized them all. Although at first only damp logs were placed on the pyre, in order that the she-devil would not perish quickly and would know the full agony of fire, now came the order to throw on more dry sticks and put an end to the torture as quickly as possible. However, a veritable demon had entered the accursed one; for although she was already sizzling well, she uttered no cries of anguish, but instead began to hurl even more awful abuse. ‘An avenger will be born of my blood,’ she cried. ‘From my tainted Elder Blood will be born the avenger of the nations and of the world! He will avenge my torment! Death, death and vengeance to all of you and your kin!’ Only this much was she able to cry out before the flame consumed her. Thus perished Falka; such was her punishment for spilling innocent blood.
Roderick de Novembre, The History of the World,
Volume II
‘Look at her. Sunburnt and covered in cuts. She’s an outcast. She’s drinking like a fish and is as ravenous as a wolf. She came out of the east, I tell you. She crossed Korath. She crossed the Frying Pan.’
‘Rubbish! No one survives the Frying Pan. She’s come out of the west, down from the mountains, along the course of the Suchak. She barely touched the edge of Korath and that was enough for her. We found her lying in a heap on the ground, almost lifeless.’
‘The desert also drags on for miles to the west. So where did she walk from?’
‘She didn’t walk, she’d been riding. Who knows how far? There were hoof prints by her. Her horse must have thrown her in the Suchak valley, and that’s why she’s battered and bruised.’
‘Why is she so important to Nilfgaard, I wonder? When the prefect sent us off on that search party, I thought some important noblewoman had gone missing. But her? An ordinary slummock, a shabby drudge, and dazed and mute to boot. I really don’t know, Skomlik, if we’ve found the one we’re after . . .’
‘That’s ’er. But ordinary she is not. Had she been ordinary, we’d have found her dead.’
‘It was a close thing. There’s no doubt the rain saved her. The oldest grandfathers can’t recall rain in the Frying Pan, dammit. Clouds always pass by Korath . . . Even when it rains in the valleys, not a single drop falls there!’
‘Look at her wolfing down that food. It’s as if she’d had nothing in her gob for a week . . . Hey, you, slut! Like that pork fat? And that dry bread?’
‘Ask her in Elven. Or in Nilfgaardian. She doesn’t understand Common Speech. She’s some kind of elven spawn . . .’
‘She’s a simpleton, not right in the head. When I lifted her onto the horse this morning, it was like holding a wooden doll.’
‘Don’t you have eyes?’ asked the powerful, balding one they called Skomlik, baring his teeth. ‘What kind of Trappers are you, if you haven’t rumbled her yet? She’s neither stupid, nor simple. She’s pretending. She’s a strange and cunning little bird.’
‘So why’s she so important to Nilfgaard? They’ve promised a reward. There are patrols rushing around all over the place . . . Why?’
‘That I don’t know. Though it might be an idea to ask her . . . A whip across the back might encourage her . . . Ha! Did you mark how she looked at me? She understands everything, she’s listening carefully. Hey, wench! I’m Skomlik, a hunter. Also called a Trapper. And this, look here, is a whip. Also called a knout! Want to keep the skin on your back? Then let’s hear it—’
‘Enough! Silence!’
A loud, stern order, tolerating no opposition, came from another campfire, where a knight and his squire were sitting.
‘Getting bored, Trappers?’ asked the knight menacingly. ‘Then get down to some work. The horses need grooming. My armour and weapons need cleaning. Go to the forest for wood. And do not touch the girl! Do you understand, you churls?’
‘Indeed, noble Sir Sweers,’ muttered Skomlik. His comrades looked sheepish.
‘To work! Carry out my orders!’
The Trappers made themselves busy.
‘Fate has really punished us with that arsehole,’ muttered one of them. ‘O
h, that the prefect put us under the command of that fucking knight—’
‘Full of himself,’ muttered another quietly, glancing around stealthily. ‘And, after all, it was us Trappers what found the girl . . . We had the hunch to ride into the Suchak valley.’
‘Right enough. We deserve the credit, but His Lordship will take the bounty. We’ll barely see a groat . . . They’ll toss us a florin. “There you go, be grateful for your lord’s generosity, Trapper”.’
‘Shut your traps,’ hissed Skomlik. ‘He might hear you . . .’
Ciri found herself alone by the fire. The knight and squire looked at her inquisitively, but said nothing.
The knight was a middle-aged but still robust man with a scarred face. When riding, he wore a helmet with birds’ wings, but they were not the wings Ciri had first seen in her nightmares and later on the Isle of Thanedd. He was not the Black Knight of Cintra. But he was a Nilfgaardian knight. When he issued orders, he spoke the Common Speech fluently, but with a marked accent, similar to that of the Elves. However, he spoke with his squire (a boy not much older than Ciri) in a language resembling the Elder Speech, but harder and less melodious. It had to be Nilfgaardian. Ciri, who spoke the Elder Speech well, understood most of the words. But she didn’t let on that she understood. The Nilfgaardian knight and his squire had peppered her with questions during the first stop, at the edge of the desert known as the Frying Pan or Korath. She hadn’t answered then, because she had been indifferent and stupefied. Befuddled. A few days into the ride, when they had left the rocky ravines and rode down into green valleys, Ciri had already fully recovered her faculties. At last she began to notice the world around her and react to it, albeit apathetically. But she continued to ignore questions, so the knight stopped speaking to her at all. He appeared not to pay her any attention. Only the ruffians – the ones calling themselves Trappers – took an interest in her. And they also tried to question her. Aggressively.
But the Nilfgaardian in the winged helmet swiftly took them to task. It was clear who was the master and who was the servant.