The Witcher

BLOOD OF ELVES IV

Triss Merigold blew into her frozen hands, wriggled her fingers and murmured a magic formula. Her horse, a gelding, immediately reacted to the spell, snorting and turning its head, looking at the enchantress with eyes made watery by the cold and wind.

'You've got two options, old thing,' said Triss, pulling on her gloves. 'Either you get used to magic or I sell you to some peasants to pull a plough.'

The gelding pricked up its ears, snorted vapour through its nostrils and obediently started down the wooded mountainside. The magician leaned over in the saddle, avoiding being lashed by the frosty branches.

The magic worked quickly; she stopped feeling the sting of cold in her elbows and on her neck and the unpleasant sensation of cold which had made her hunch her shoulders and draw her head in disappeared. The spell, warming her, also muffled the hunger which had been eating at her for several hours. Triss cheered up, made herself comfortable in the saddle and, with greater attention than before, started to take stock of her surroundings.

Ever since she had left the beaten track, she had been guided by the greyish-white wall of mountains and their snow-capped summits which glistened gold in those rare moments when the sun pierced the clouds - usually in the morning or just before sunset. Now that she was closer to the mountain chain she had to take greater care. The land around Kaer Morhen was famous for its wildness and inaccessibility, and the gap in the granite wall that was a vital landmark was not easy for an inexperienced eye to find.. It was enough to turn down one of the numerous gullies and gorges to lose sight of it. And even she who knew the land, knew the way and knew where to look for the pass, could not allow herself to lose her concentration for an instant.

The forest came to an end. A wide valley opened before the enchantress, strewn with boulders which ran across the valley to the sheer mountain-slope on the other side. The Gwenllech, the River of White Stones, flowed down the heart of the valley, foam seething between the boulders and logs washed along by the current. Here, in its upper reaches, the Gwenllech was no more than a wide but shallow stream. Up here it could be crossed without any difficulty.

Lower down, in Kaedwen, in its middle reaches, the river was an insurmountable obstacle, rushing and breaking against the beds of its deep chasms.

The gelding, driven into the water, hastened its step, clearly wanting to reach the opposite bank as quickly as possible. Triss held it back lightly - the stream was shallow, reaching just above the horse's fetlocks but the pebbles covering the bed were slippery and the current was sharp and quick. The water churned and foamed around her mount's legs.

The magician looked up at the sky. The growing cold and increasing wind here, in the mountains, could herald a blizzard and she did not find the prospect of spending yet another night in a grotto or rocky nook too attractive. She could, if she had to, continue her journey even through a blizzard; she could locate the path using telepathy, she could - using magic - make herself insensitive to the cold. She could, if she had to. But she preferred not to have to.

Luckily, Kaer Morhen was already close. Triss urged the gelding on to flat scree, over an enormous heap of stones washed down by glaciers and streams, and rode into a narrow pass between rocky outcrops. The gorge walls rose vertically and seemed to meet high above her, only divided by a narrow line of sky. It grew warmer, the wind howling above the rocks could no longer reach to lash and sting at her.

The pass broadened, leading through a ravine and then into the valley, opening onto a huge depression, covered by forest, which stretched out amidst jagged boulders. The magician ignored the gentle, accessible depression rim and rode down towards the forest, into the thick backwoods. Dry branches cracked under the gelding's hooves. Forced to step over fallen tree trunks, the horse snorted, danced and stamped. Triss pulled at the reins, tugged at her mount's shaggy ear and scolded it harshly with spiteful allusions to its lameness.

The steed, looking for all the world as though it were ashamed of itself, walked with a more even and sprightly gait and picked its way through the thicket.

Before long they emerged onto clearer land, riding along the trough of a stream which barely trickled along the ravine bed. The magician looked around carefully, finally finding what she was looking for. Over the gully, supported horizontally by enormous boulders, lay a mighty tree trunk, dark, bare and turning green with moss. Triss rode closer, wanting to make sure this was, indeed, the Trail and not a tree accidentally felled in a gale. But she spied a narrow, indistinct pathway disappearing into the woods. She could not be mistaken - this was definitely the Trail, a path encircling the old castle of Kaer Morhen and beset with obstacles, where witchers trained to improve their running speeds and controlled breathing. The path was known as the Trail, but Triss knew young witchers had given it their own name: The Killer.

She clung to the horse's neck and slowly rode under the trunk. At that moment, she heard stones grating. And the fast, light footsteps of someone running.

She turned in her saddle, pulled on the reins and waited for the witcher to run out onto the log.

A witcher did run out onto the log, flitted along it like an arrow without slowing down, without even using his arms to aid his balance - running nimbly, fluently, with incredible grace. He flashed by, approaching and disappearing amongst the trees without disturbing a single branch. Triss sighed loudly, shaking her head in disbelief.

Because the witcher, judging by his height and build, was only about twelve.

The magician eased the reins, nudged the horse with her heels and trotted upstream. She knew the Trail cut across the ravine once more, at a spot known as the Gullet. She wanted to catch a glimpse of the little witcher once again - children had not been trained in Kaer Morhen for near to a quarter of a century.

She was not in a great hurry. The narrow Killer path meandered and looped its way through the forest and, in order to master it, the little witcher would take far longer than she would, following the shortcut. However, she could not loiter either. Beyond the Gullet, the Trail turned into the woods and led straight to the fortress. If she did not catch the boy at the precipice, she might not see him at all. She had already visited Kaer Morhen a few times, and knew she saw only what the witchers wanted her to see. Triss was not so naive as to be unaware that they wanted to show her only a tiny fraction of the things to be seen in Kaer Morhen.

After a few minutes riding along the stony trough of the stream she caught sight of the Gullet - a leap over the gully created by two huge mossy rocks, overgrown with gnarled, stunted trees. She released the reins. The horse snorted and lowered its head towards the water trickling between pebbles.

She did not have to wait long. The witcher's silhouette appeared on the rock and the boy jumped, not slowing his pace. The magician heard the soft smack of his landing and a moment later a rattle of stones, the dull thud of a fall and a quiet cry. Or rather, a squeal.

Triss instantly leaped from her saddle, threw the fur off her shoulders and dashed across the mountainside, pulling herself up using tree branches and roots. Momentum aided her climb until she slipped on the conifer needles and fell to her knees next to a figure huddled on the stones. The youngster, on seeing her, jumped up like a spring, backed away in a flash and nimbly grabbed the sword slung across his back - then tripped and collapsed between the junipers and pines. The magician did not rise from her knees; she stared at the boy and opened her mouth in surprise.

Because it was not a boy.

From beneath an ash-blonde fringe, poorly and unevenly cut, enormous emerald eyes - the predominant features in a small face with a narrow chin and upturned nose - stared out at her.

There was fear in the eyes.

'Don't be afraid,' Triss said tentatively.

The girl opened her eyes even wider. She was hardly out of breath and did not appear to be sweating. It was clear she had already run the Killer more than once.

'Nothing's happened to you?'

The girl did not reply; instead she sprang up, hissed with pain, shifted her weight to her left leg, bent over and rubbed her knee. She was dressed in a sort of leather suit sewn together — or rather stuck together — in a way which would make any tailor who took pride in his craft howl in horror and despair. The only pieces of her equipment which seemed to be relatively new, and fitted her, were her knee-high boots, her belts and her sword. More precisely, her little sword.

'Don't be afraid,' repeated Triss, still not rising from her knees. 'I heard your fall and was scared, that's why I rushed here—'

'I slipped,' murmured the girl.

'Have you hurt yourself?'

'No. You?'

The enchantress laughed, tried to get up, winced and swore at the pain in her ankle. She sat down and carefully straightened her foot, swearing once more.

'Come here, little one, help me get up.'

'I'm not little.'

'If you say so. In that case, what are you?'

'A witcher!'

'Ha! So, come here and help me get up, witcher.'

The girl did not move from the spot. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and her hands, in their fingerless, woollen gloves, toyed with her sword belt as she glanced suspiciously at Triss.

'Have no fear,' said the enchantress with a smile. 'I'm not a bandit or outsider. I'm called Triss Merigold and I'm going to Kaer Morhen. The witchers know me. Don't gape at me. I respect your suspicion, but be reasonable. Would I have got this far if I hadn't known the way? Have you ever met a human on the Trail?'

The girl overcame her hesitation, approached and stretched out her hand. Triss stood with only a little assistance. Because she was not concerned with having help. She wanted a closer look at the girl. And to touch her.

The green eyes of the little witcher-girl betrayed no signs of mutation, and the touch of her little hand did not produce the slight, pleasant tingling sensation so characteristic of witchers.

Although she ran the Killer path with a sword slung across her back, the ashen-haired girl had not been subjected to the Trial of Grasses or to Changes. Of that, Triss was certain.

'Show me your knee, little one.'

'I'm not little.'

'Sorry. But surely you have a name?'

'I do. I'm . . . Ciri.'

'It's a pleasure. A bit closer if you please, Ciri.'

'It's nothing.'

'I want to see what "nothing" looks like. Ah, that's what I thought. "Nothing" looks remarkably like torn trousers and skin grazed down to raw flesh. Stand still and don't be scared.'

'I'm not scared . . . Awww!'

The magician laughed and rubbed her palm, itching from casting the spell, against her hip.

The girl bent over and gazed at her knee.

'Oooh,' she said. 'It doesn't hurt any more! And there's no hole . . . Was that magic?'

'You've guessed it.'

'Are you a witch?'

'Guessed again. Although I prefer to be called an enchantress. To avoid getting it wrong you can call me by my name, Triss. Just Triss. Come on, Ciri. My horse is waiting at the bottom.

We'll go to Kaer Morhen together.'

'I ought to run.' Ciri shook her head. 'It's not good to stop running because you get milk in your muscles. Geralt says—'

'Geralt is at the keep?'

Ciri frowned, pinched her lips together and shot a glance at the enchantress from beneath her ashen fringe. Triss chuckled again.

'All right,' she said. 'I won't ask. A secret's a secret, and you're right not to disclose it to someone you hardly know. Come on. When we get there we'll see who's at the castle and who isn't. And don't worry about your muscles — I know what to do about lactic acid. Ah, here's my mount. I'll help you . . .'

She stretched out her hand, but Ciri didn't need any help. She jumped agilely into the saddle, lightly, almost without taking off. The gelding started, surprised, and stamped, but the girl quickly took up the reins and reassured it.

'You know how to handle a horse, I see.'

'I can handle anything.'

'Move up towards the pommel.' Triss slipped her foot into the stirrup and caught hold of the mane. 'Make a bit of room for me. And don't poke my eye out with that sword.'

The gelding, spurred on by her heels, moved off along the stream bed at a walking pace. They rode across another gully and climbed the rounded mountainside. From there they could see the ruins of Kaer Morhen huddled against the stone precipices - the partially demolished trapezium of the defensive wall, the remains of the barbican and gate, the thick, blunt column of the donjon.

The gelding snorted and jerked its head, crossing what remained of the bridge over the moat.

Triss tugged at the reins. The decaying skulls and skeletons strewn across the river bed made no impression on her. She had seen them before.

'I don't like this,' the girl suddenly remarked. 'It's not as it should be. The dead should to be buried in the ground. Under a barrow. Shouldn't they?'

'They should,' the magician agreed calmly. 'I think so, too. But the witchers treat this graveyard as a . . . reminder.'

'Reminder of what?'

'Kaer Morhen,' Triss said as she guided the horse towards the shattered arcades, 'was assaulted. There was a b****y battle here in which almost all the witchers died. Only those who weren't in the keep at the time survived.'

'Who attacked them? And why?'

'I don't know,' she lied. 'It was a terribly long time ago, Ciri. Ask the witchers about it.'

'I have,' grunted the girl. 'But they didn't want to tell me.'

I can understand that, thought the magician. A child trained to be a witcher, a girl, at that, who has not undergone the mutations, should not be told such things.

A child like that should not hear about the m******e. A child like that should not be terrified by the prospect that they too may one day hear words describing it like those which were screamed by the fanatics who marched on Kaer Morhen long ago. Mutant. Monster. Freak.

Damned by the gods, a creature contrary to nature. No, I do not blame the witchers for not telling you about it, little Ciri. And I shan't tell you either. I have even more reason to be silent. Because I am a wizard, and without the aid of wizards those fanatics would never have conquered the castle. And that hideous lampoon, that widely distributed Monstrum which stirred the fanatics up and drove them to such wickedness was also, apparently, some wizard's anonymous work. But I, little Ciri, do not recognise collective responsibility, I do not feel the need to expiate the events which took place half a century before my birth. And the skeletons which are meant to serve as an eternal reminder will ultimately rot away completely, disintegrate into dust and be forgotten, will disappear with the wind which constantly whips the mountainside . . .

'They don't want to lie like that,' said Ciri suddenly. 'They don't want to be a symbol, a bad conscience or a warning. But neither do they want their dust to be swept away by the wind.'

Triss raised her head, hearing a change in the girl's voice. Immediately she sensed a magical aura, a pulsating and a rush of blood in her temples. She grew tense but did not utter a word, afraid of breaking into or disrupting what was happening.

'An ordinary barrow.' Ciri's voice was becoming more and more unnatural, metallic, cold and menacing. 'A mound of earth which will be overgrown with nettles. Death has cold blue eyes, and the height of the obelisk does not matter, nor does the writing engraved on it matter. Who can know that better than you, Triss Merigold, the Fourteenth One of the Hill?'

The enchantress froze. She saw the girl's hands clench the horse's mane.

'You died on the Hill, Triss Merigold.' The strange, evil voice spoke again. 'Why have you come here? Go back, go back at once and take this child, the Child of Elder Blood, with you.

Return her to those to whom she belongs. Do this, Fourteenth One. Because if you do not you will die once more. The day will come when the Hill will claim you. The mass grave, and the obelisk on which your name is engraved, will claim you.'

The gelding neighed loudly, tossing its head. Ciri jerked suddenly, shuddered.

'What happened?' asked Triss, trying to control her voice.

Ciri coughed, passed both hands through her hair and rubbed her face.

'Nn . . . nothing . . .' she muttered hesitantly. 'I'm tired, that's why . . . That's why I fell asleep. I ought to run . . .'

The magical aura disappeared. Triss experienced a sudden cold wave sweep through her entire body. She tried to convince herself it was the effect of the defensive spell dying away, but she knew that wasn't true. She glanced up at the stone blocks of the castle, the black, empty eye-sockets of its ruined loop-holes gaping at her. A shudder ran through her.

The horse's shoes rang against the slabs in the courtyard. The magician quickly leaped from the saddle and held out her hand to Ciri. Taking advantage of the touch of their hands she carefully emitted a magical impulse. And was astounded. Because she didn't feel anything. No reaction, no reply. And no resistance. In the girl who had, just a moment ago, manifested an exceptionally strong aura there was not a trace of magic. She was now an ordinary, badly dressed child whose hair had been incompetently cut.

But a moment ago, this child had been no ordinary child.

Triss did not have time to ponder the strange event. The grate of an iron-clad door reached her, coming from the dark void of the corridor which gaped behind the battered portal. She slipped the fur cape from her shoulders, removed her fox-fur hat and, with a swift movement of the head, tousled her hair - long, full locks the colour of fresh chestnuts, with a sheen of gold, her pride and identifying characteristic.

Ciri sighed with admiration. Triss smiled, pleased by the effect she'd had. Beautiful, long, loose hair was a rarity, an indication of a woman's position, her status, the sign of a free woman, a woman who belonged to herself. The sign of an unusual woman - because 'normal' maidens wore their hair in plaits, 'normal' married women hid theirs beneath a caul or a coif. Women of high birth, including queens, curled their hair and styled it. Warriors cut it short. Only druids and magicians — and w****s — wore their hair naturally so as to emphasise their independence and freedom.

The witchers appeared unexpectedly and silently, as usual, and, also as usual, from nowhere.

They stood before her, tall, slim, their arms crossed, the weight of their bodies on their left legs - a position from which, she knew, they could attack in a split second. Ciri stood next to them, in an identical position. In her ludicrous clothes, she looked very funny.

'Welcome to Kaer Morhern, Triss.'

'Greetings, Geralt.'

He had changed. He gave the impression of having aged. Triss knew that, biologically, this was impossible - witchers aged, certainly, but too slowly for an ordinary mortal, or a magician as young as her, to notice the changes. But one glance was enough for her to realise that although mutation could hold back the physical process of ageing, it did not alter the mental.

Geralt's face, slashed by wrinkles, was the best evidence of this. With a sense of deep sorrow Triss tore her gaze away from the white-haired witcher's eyes. Eyes which had evidently seen too much. What's more, she saw nothing of what she had expected in those eyes.

'Welcome,' he repeated. 'We are glad you've come.'

Eskel stood next to Geralt, resembling the Wolf like a brother apart from the colour of his hair and the long scar which disfigured his cheek. And the youngest of the Kaer Morhen witchers, Lambert, was there with his usual ugly, mocking expression. Vesemir was not there.

'Welcome and come in,' said Eskel. 'It is as cold and blustery as if someone has hung themselves. Ciri, where are you off to? The invitation does not apply to you. The sun is still high, even if it is obscured. You can still train.'

'Hey.' The Enchantress tossed her hair. 'Politeness comes cheap in Witchers' Keep now, I see.

Ciri was the first to greet me, and brought me to the castle. She ought to keep me company—'

'She is undergoing training here, Merigold.' Lambert grimaced in a parody of a smile. He always called her that: 'Merigold', without giving her a title or a name. Triss hated it. 'She is a student, not a major domo. Welcoming guests, even such pleasant ones as yourself, is not one of her duties. We're off, Ciri.'

Triss gave a little shrug, pretending not to see Geralt and Eskel's embarrassed expressions.

She did not say anything, not wanting to embarrass them further. And, above all, she did not want them to see how very intrigued and fascinated she was by the girl.

'I'll take your horse,' offered Geralt, reaching for the reins. Triss surreptitiously shifted her hand and their palms joined. So did their eyes.

'I'll come with you,' she said naturally. 'There are a few little things in the saddle-bags which I'll need.'

'You gave me a very disagreeable experience not so long ago,' he muttered as soon as they had entered the stable. 'I studied your impressive tombstone with my own eyes. The obelisk in memory of your heroic death at the battle of Sodden. The news that it was a mistake only reached me recently. I can't understand how anyone could mistake anyone else for you, Triss.'

'It's a long story,' she answered. Til tell you some time. And please forgive me for the disagreeable moment.'

'There's nothing to forgive. I've not had many reasons to be happy of late and the feelings I experienced on hearing that you lived cannot compare to any other. Except perhaps what I feel now when I look at you.'

Triss felt something explode inside her. Her fear of meeting the white-haired witcher, which had accompanied her throughout her journey, had struggled within her with her hope of having such a meeting. Followed by the sight of that tired, jaded face, those sick eyes which saw everything, cold and calculating, which were unnaturally calm but yet so infused with emotion . . .

She threw her arms around his neck, instantly, without thinking. She caught hold of his hand, abruptly placed it on the nape of her neck, under her hair. A tingling ran down her back, penetrated her with such rapture she almost cried out. In order to muffle and restrain the cry her lips found his lips and stuck to them. She trembled, pressing hard against him, her excitement building and increasing, forgetting herself more and more.

Geralt did not forget himself.

'Triss . . . Please.'

'Oh, Geralt ... So much . . .'

'Triss.' He moved her away delicately. 'We're not alone . . . They're coming.'

She glanced at the entrance and saw the shadows of the approaching witchers only after some time, heard their steps even later. Oh well, her hearing, which she considered very sensitive, could not compete with that of a witcher.

'Triss, my child!'

'Vesemir!'

Vesemir was really very old. Who knows, he could be even older than Kaer Morhen. But he walked towards her with a brisk, energetic and sprightly step; his grip was vigorous and his hands strong.

'I am happy to see you again, Grandfather.'

'Give me a kiss. No, not on the hand, little sorceress. You can kiss my hand when I'm resting on my bier. Which will, no doubt, be soon. Oh, Triss, it is a good thing you have come . . . Who can cure me if not you?'

'Cure, you? Of what? Of behaving like a child, surely! Take your hand from my backside, old man, or I'll set fire to that grey beard of yours!'

'Forgive me. I keep forgetting you are grown up, and I can no longer put you on my knee and pat you. As to my health . . . Oh, Triss, old age is no joke. My bones ache so I want to howl. Will you help an old man, child?'

'I will.' The enchantress freed herself from his bear-like embrace and cast her eye over the witcher accompanying Vesemir. He was young, apparently the same age as Lambert, and wore a short, black beard which did not hide the severe disfigurement left behind by smallpox. This was unusual; witchers were generally highly immune to infectious diseases.

'Triss Merigold, Coen.' Geralt introduced them to each other. 'This is Coen's first winter with us. He comes from the north, from Poviss.'

The young witcher bowed. He had unusually pale, yellow-green irises and the whites of his eyes, riddled with red threads, indicated difficult and troublesome processes during his mutation.

'Let us go, child,' uttered Vesemir, taking her by the arm. 'A stable is no place to welcome a guest, but I couldn't wait to see you.'

In the courtyard, in a recess in the wall sheltered from the wind, Ciri was training under Lambert's instructions. Deftly balancing on a beam hanging on chains, she was attacking - with her sword -a leather sack bound with straps to make it resemble a human torso. Triss stopped to watch.

'Wrong!' yelled Lambert. 'You're getting too close! Don't hack blindly at it! I told you, the very tip of the sword, at the carotid artery! Where does a humanoid have its carotid artery? On top of its head? What's happening? Concentrate, Princess!'

Ha, thought Triss. So it is truth, not a legend. She is the one. 1 guessed correctly.

She decided to attack without delay, not allowing the witchers to try any ruses.

'The famous Child Surprise?' she said indicating Ciri. 'I see you have applied yourselves to fulfilling the demands of fate and destiny? But it seems you have muddled the stories, boys. In the fairy-tales I was told, shepherdesses and orphans become princesses. But here, I see, a princess is becoming a witcher. Does that not appear somewhat daring to you?'

Vesemir glanced at Geralt. The white-haired witcher remained silent, his face perfectly still; he did not react with even the slightest quiver of his eyelids to Vesemir's unspoken request for support.

'It's not what you think.' The old man cleared his throat. 'Geralt brought her here last autumn.

She has no one apart from— Triss, how can one not believe in destiny when—'

'What has destiny to do with waving a sword around?'

'We are teaching her to fence,' Geralt said quietly, turning towards her and looking her straight in the eyes. 'What else are we to teach her? We know nothing else. Destiny or no, Kaer Morhen is now her home. At least for a while. Training and swordsmanship amuse her, keep her healthy and fit. They allow her to forget the tragedy she has lived through. This is her home now, Triss. She has no other.'

'Masses of Cintrians,' the enchantress said, holding his gaze, 'fled to Verden after the defeat, to Brugge, Temeria and the Islands of Skellige. Amongst them are magnates, barons, knights. Friends, relations ... as well as this girl's subjects.'

'Friends and relations did not look for her after the war. They did not find her.'

'Because she was not destined for them?' She smiled at him, not very sincerely but very prettily. As prettily as she could. She did not want him to use that tone of voice.

The witcher shrugged. Triss, knowing him a little, immediately changed tactics and gave up the argument.

She looked at Ciri again. The girl, agilely stepping along the balance beam, executed a half-turn, cut lightly, and immediately leaped away. The dummy, struck, swayed on its rope.

'Well, at last!' shouted Lambert. 'You've finally got it! Go back and do it again. I want to make sure it wasn't a fluke!'

'The sword,' Triss turned to the witchers, 'looks sharp. The beam looks slippery and unstable.

And Lambert looks like an i***t, demoralising the girl with all his shouting. Aren't you afraid of an unfortunate accident? Or maybe you're relying on destiny to protect the child against it?'