Chapter Text
Avallac’h hadn’t lied.
Here, on open ground, on meadows and moors dotted with menhirs, the same force was active as around Tor Zireael. You could try riding at full speed in any direction, but after a furlong or so an invisible force made you ride around in a circle and you arrived just where you left off.
She was trapped. Their prisoner.
Ciri patted the wheezing black mare she had called Kelpie on her neck, and looked at the small group of elves who had followed her at an easy pace. A moment earlier, when Avallac’h had finally told her what they wanted from her, she had launched into a break-neck gallop, to escape from them, to leave them as far as possible behind her - they and their impudent, unthinkable task.
Now, though, they were in front of her again. At a distance of more or less a furlong.
Avallac’h hadn’t lied. There was no escape.
The only good thing the gallop had brought was that it had cooled her head, chilled her rage. She was now much calmer. But nonetheless she was still shaking with anger.
She quite quickly caught up with Avallac’h and the three elf-women.
It had been the fair-haired elf who had greeted her in this world eight days ago, when she, together with her black mare, had appeared out of thin air in the courtyard of their tower. He had introduced himself as Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha, an Aen Saevherne, a Knowin One. Something like an elven sorcerer. But commonly, he went by his alias Avallac’h.
The Sage, smiling slightly, turned his gentle aquamarine eyes enquiringly on her.
“Please, Avallac’h,” She cleared her throat. “Tell me it was a dismal joke.”
Something like a shadow passed over his face.
“I’m not accustomed to joking”, he said. “And since you consider it a joke, I’ll take the liberty repeating it with due gravity: We want to have your child, Swallow, daughter of Lara Dorren.”
“I am Cirilla of Cintra, Pavetta’s daughter! I don’t even know who your Lara is!”
Ciri huffed and shook her head. Her name derived from the elven name Zireael, their word for the bird swallow, so that was what they addressed her. No matter how often she had said that she went by Ciri.
“Only when you bear it,” Avallac’h continued with nonchalant indifference, “will we permit you to leave here, to return to your world. The choice, naturally, is yours. I presume your reckless dash helped you to reach a decision. What is your answer?”
“My answer is no!” She replied firmly and close to shouting. “Categorically and absolutely no. I don’t agree and that’s that.”
“Tough luck,” he shrugged. “I admit I am disappointed. But why, it’s your choice.”
The elf’s face remained unreadable, as always, which enraged Ciri even more.
“How can you demand something like that at all?” she cried in a trembling voice. “How could you dare? By what right?”
He looked at her calmly. Ciri also felt the gaze of the elf-women on her.
“I believe,” he said, “that I told you the story of your family in detail. You seemed to understand. Thus your question astonishes me. We have the right to demand, and we can, O Swallow. Your father, Cregennan, took a child from us. You will give us one back. You will repay the debt. It seems just and logical to me.”
“My father ... I don’t remember my father, but he was called Duny. Not Cregennan. I’ve already told you!”
“And I replied that those few ridiculous human generations are meaningless to us.”
“But I don’t want to!” yelled Ciri so loudly that the mare skittered beneath her.
“I don’t want to, understand? I don’t want to and I won’t!” She screamed. “The thought of a bloody parasite being implanted in me is sickening! I feel nauseous when I think that that parasite will grow inside me, that—"
Avallac’h coughed meaningfully and Ciri broke off, seeing the aghast faces of the elf-women. Two of them expressed boundless astonishment. The third boundless odium.
“Let’s ride on a little and talk in private,” Avallac’h said coolly. “Your views, Swallow, are a little too - radical - to be expressed in front of witnesses.”
She did as he asked. They rode on in silence for a long while. The elf rode so close he was touching her knee and his calmness radiated over to her, tried to soothe her incensed mind, but it only seemed to work on her mount.
“The choice, as I said, belongs to you. You ought, however, to know something. It would be dishonest to conceal if from you. You can’t escape from here, O Swallow. So, if you refuse to cooperate you will stay here forever, and will never see your friends or your world again.”
“That’s despicable blackmail!”
“If, though,” he continued, unconcerned by her yelling, “you agree to what we ask, we’ll prove to you that time is meaningless.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Time passes differently here than in your world. If you do us this favour, we shall return a favour. We shall enable you to regain the time you will lose among us here. Among the Folk of the Alder. And send you back to the time you came from in your world.”
Ciri said nothing, her eyes fixed on Kelpie’s black mane. Use delaying tactics, she thought. As Vesemir said in Kaer Morhen, when they’re about to hang you, ask for a glass of water. You never know what might happen before they bring it.
As on cue, one of the elf-women suddenly screamed and whistled.
Avallac’h’s horse neighed, and danced on the spot. The elf brought it quickly under control and shouted some orders to the elf-women. Ciri saw one of them draw a bow from a leather quiver hanging from her saddle. She stood up in the stirrups and shielded her eyes with a hand.
“Keep calm,” said Avallac’h sharply and moved his horse between Ciri and whatever the elves were seeing.
Ciri leaned forward to look past Avallac’h’s back and gasped.
Unicorns were galloping over the moor about two hundred paces from them. An entire herd, at least thirty head.
Ciri had seen small groups of unicorns in this world before. Sometimes, particularly at dawn, they came up to the lake at the foot of the Tower of the Swallow when it was still covered in morning mist. They had never let her approach them, though, and had always vanished like ghosts, leaving her to wonder if they had been real or just some sort of illusion or mirage.
This time it was a bigger group with an obvious leader of the herd that stood out. It was a great stallion with a strange, reddish coat. He suddenly stopped, neighed piercingly and reared up. He trotted on his hind hooves, waving his fore hooves in the air in a way that would have been impossible for any normal horse.
Ciri noted in amazement that Avallac’h and the three elf-women were humming, singing in chorus some strange, monotonous tune.
Who are you?
She shook her head.
WHO ARE YOU?!
The question sounded again in her skull, pounded in her temples.
The elves’ song suddenly rose a tone in pitch. The ruddy unicorn neighed and the entire herd answered in kind. The earth trembled as they galloped away.
The song of Avallac’h and the elf-women broke off.
Ciri saw the Knowing One furtively wiping sweat from his brow. The elf glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, understanding that she had seen.
“Not everything here is as pretty as it looks,” he said dryly. “Not everything.”
“Are you afraid of unicorns? But they’re wise and friendly.”
He didn’t answer.
“I heard,” Ciri went on, “that elves and unicorns loved one another.”
He turned his head.
“Then accept,” he said coldly, “that what you saw was a lovers’ tiff.”
One of the elf-women shouted again.
Ciri glanced to where she was pointing. Before she had time to note that the herd being led by the ruddy stallion had returned, the second elf-woman shouted. She stood up in her stirrups.
Another herd emerged from the opposite side, from behind a hill. The unicorn leading this one was an even more impressive stallion, his colouring bluish-grey and dappled. He galloped, his finely sculptured head held high, with an unnatural easiness, as if his hooves weren’t touching the ground, and his collected poise betrayed the power embedded in his muscular body.
His eyes found the ones of his reddish counterpart whose head turned towards the arriving herd. The other stallion seemed to communicate silently with the blue.
Avallac’h quickly shouted a few words. It was the Ellylon language of the Aen Elle that Ciri mostly found so difficult to comprehend, as opposed to the Hen Llinge Elvish of the Aen Seidhe elves she had learned at home, but now she understood, particularly since the elf-women reached for their bows in unison.
The blue stallion’s head turned towards them and his nostrils flared. He stopped and reared, his long white mane billowing behind him.
Avallac’h turned his face towards Ciri, as she felt a buzzing growing in her head. It was a buzzing quite similar to what a conch shell emits when pressed to the ear. But much stronger.
Do not resist!
She felt an urgent voice pounding in her head. Similar to the question she had heard before, when she had been asked who she was, but more resonant, deeper and more powerful. It wasn’t as if she was hearing words, but more as if she felt the meaning imprinted in her brain.
Do not fight. I must leap, I must transport you to another place. You are in mortal danger!
A whistle and a long, drawn-out cry reached them from far away. And a moment later the earth shuddered under iron-shod hooves.
Riders emerged from behind the hill. An entire troop.
Their horses were wearing caparisons, the riders crested helmets, and the cloaks around their shoulders fluttered in their extended gallop. Their vermilion-amaranth- crimson colour brought to mind the glow of a fire in the sky illuminated by the blaze of the setting sun.
Another whistling and a cry. The horsemen raced towards them en masse.
Before they had ridden half a furlong the unicorns had vanished. They disappeared, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.
*
The riders’ leader, a tall black-haired elf, sat on a dark bay stallion as huge as a dragon. It was adorned, like all the horses in the troop, in a caparison embroidered with dragon’s scales, and wore on its head a truly demonic horned bucranium. Like all the elves, the black-haired one wore beneath his cloak of a myriad shades of red a mail shirt made of unbelievably tiny rings, thanks to which it fit his body snugly, like knitted woollen cloth.
“Avallac’h,” he said, saluting.
“Eredin,” the so addressed answered.
“You owe me a favour.” The rider stated. “You will pay it back when I demand it.”
“I’ll pay it back when you demand it.” Avallac’h confirmed in a tone Ciri had not heard of him, before.
The black-haired elf dismounted.
Avallac’h also dismounted, gesturing to Ciri to do the same. They walked up the hill between white rocks with peculiar shapes covered in spindle and dwarf shrubs of flowering myrtle.
Ciri looked at the two men.
They were of equal height, meaning they were both extremely tall even among elves. But Avallac’h’s form was the lean built of a Sage and the other’s the muscular one of a warrior.
As if feeling her appraising gaze on him, the knight looked at her as he removed his helmet.
His eyes were of a similar shade as Avallac’h’s, though more greenish. But that was where their similarities ended. Although both elven faces were extremely handsome to human eyes, they were distinctly differently sculptured. Where Avallac’h’s face was gentle and seemed mild, the black-haired elf’s face brought to mind a bird of prey.
Fair and black, she thought. Light and dark... Good and evil.
“Zireael, let me introduce you to Eredin Bréacc Glas.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” The elf bowed elegantly and Ciri returned the bow. Not very gracefully.
“How did you know,” Avallac’h asked, “that we were in danger?”
“I had no idea.”
The elf shamelessly scrutinised Ciri while answering Avallac’h’s question.
“We patrol the plain, for news has got out that the one-horns have become anxious and aggressive. No one knows why. - I mean, - now I know why. It’s because of her, naturally.”
Avallac’h neither confirmed nor denied it.
Meanwhile, Ciri countered the black-haired elf’s gaze with a haughty expression. For a moment they looked at each other, neither of them wanting to be the first to look away.
“So that’s the supposed Elder Blood,” remarked the elf, not directly addressing her.
“Aen Hen Ichaer. The inheritance of Shiadhal and Lara Dorren? One isn’t inclined to believe it. For it’s simply a young Dh’oine.” He sounded unimpressed. “A human female.”
Avallac’h said nothing. His face was carefully motionless and indifferent.
“I assume you aren’t mistaken,” the black-haired elf continued. “Why, I take it for granted, for you, as rumour has it, never err. Hidden deep in this creature must be the Lara gene.”
Ciri slowly got the impression that these two weren’t exactly on a friendly basis and that the warrior was not too keen to befriend her, either.
“Yes, when one examines her more closely, one can see certain traits testifying to the young one’s lineage. She indeed has something in her eyes that brings to mind Lara Dorren. Doesn’t she, Avallac’h? Who, if not you, is more entitled to judge?”
Avallac’h didn’t speak this time either, but Ciri noticed a faint blush rising on his pale face. She was very surprised. And pondered it. The dark-haired elf had spoken as though to hurt the other and apparently, he had managed to pierce Avallac’h’s usually well upheld porcelain mask. Interesting.
“Summing up—" the black-haired elf grimaced “—there is something precious, something beautiful, in this little Dh’oine female. I see it. And I have the impression I’ve seen a gold nugget in a pile of compost.”
Ciri’s eyes flashed furiously.
Avallac’h slowly turned his head. “You talk just like a human, Eredin,” he said menacingly.
Eredin Bréacc Glas bared his teeth in a dangerous smile.
Ciri had seen teeth like that before: very white, very small, very sharp and very inhuman, as straight as a die, and lacking canines. She’d seen teeth like that on the dead elves lying in a row in the courtyard of the Kaedwen watchtower. She had delighted in teeth like that on Iskra among the Rats. But the teeth in Iskra’s smile looked pretty, while these teeth on this knight, they looked ghastly.
“Does this lass,” he said, not without a certain sneer, “who is trying hard to kill me with her glare, already know the reason she’s here?”
“Indeed, she does.”
“And is prepared to cooperate?”
“Not completely.”
“Not completely,” Eredin repeated, still not taking his eyes off Ciri. “Well, that’s not good. Since the nature of the cooperation demands that it be complete. It’s simply not possible if it’s less than complete. And, because we are separated from Tir ná Lia by half a day’s ride, it’d be worth knowing where we stand.”
“Why be impatient?” Avallac’h pouted his lips slightly. “What can we gain by haste?”
“Eternity.”
Eredin Bréacc Glas became serious. Something shone briefly in his green eyes before he tore them off Ciri and directed them at his interlocutor.
“But that’s your speciality, Avallac’h. Your speciality and your responsibility.”
“You have spoken, Commander.”
“Indeed I have. Sage. And now forgive me, but duty calls. I’ll leave you an escort, for safety. I advise you to overnight here, on this hill. If you set off tomorrow at daybreak, you’ll be in Tir ná Lia at the right time. Va fáill. Ah, one more thing.”
He leaned over, broke and then tore off a twig of flowering myrtle. He brought it close to his face, then handed it to Ciri.
“My apologies,” he said briefly, “for the hasty words. Va fáill, luned.”
He walked away quickly and a moment later the earth shuddered beneath hooves, as he rode off with his troop.
“Just don’t tell me,” She growled, “that I would have to ... That it’s him ... If it’s him, then I’ll never. Never ever.”
“No,” Avallac’h slowly corrected her. “It’s not him. Be calm.”
Ciri brought the myrtle up to her face. In order for him not to see the excitement and fascination that had seized her.
“I am calm.”
How could she possibly be calm.
*
As they rode on the next day, the dry thistles and heather of the steppe were replaced by lush green grass and damp ferns. The marshy ground was yellow and violet with buttercups and lupins. Soon they saw a river, which although it was crystal clear had a brown tinge. It smelled of peat.
Avallac’h was playing various lively tunes on his pipes. Ciri remained glum and was thinking intensely.
“Who,” she finally asked, “is to be the father of the child that matters so much to you? Or perhaps it is of no importance?”
“It is important. Am I to understand you’ve made your decision?”
How could she, without knowing whom…
“No, you aren’t. I’m simply clearing up certain matters.”
“May I help? What do you want to know?”
Why did he always have to be this stoic, it was driving Ciri mad.
“You know very well what.”
They rode on in silence for a time. Ciri saw some swans sailing elegantly down the river. It all felt so unreal.
“The child’s father,” Avallac’h spoke calmly and to the point, “will be Auberon Muircetach. Auberon Muircetach is our ... How do you say ... Our highest leader?”
“King? King of all the Aen Seidhe?”
“Aen Seidhe, the People of the Hills, are the elves of your world. We are Aen Elle, the Folk of the Alder. And Auberon Muircetach is indeed our king.”
“The Alder King?” That title rang some bell somewhere in the depths of her mind.
“One could call him that.”
They rode on in silence. It was very warm. It felt even warmer for Ciri.
“Avallac’h.”
“Yes.”
“If I agree, then afterwards ... Later ... will I be free?”
“You’ll be free and may go wherever you wish. Assuming you don’t decide to stay. With the child.”
She snorted contemptuously, but said nothing.
“So you’ve decided?” he asked.
“I’ll decide when we arrive.”
“We have arrived.”
Ciri saw the palaces from behind the weeping willows which hung down towards the water like green curtains. She had never seen anything like them in her entire life.
The palaces, although built of marble and alabaster, looked like fragile bowers. They seemed so delicate, light and airy, as though they weren’t real buildings but mere apparitions of buildings. Ciri expected at any moment that the wind would blow and the little palaces would vanish along with the mist rising from the river. Like the unicorns. But when the wind blew, when the mist vanished, when the willow branches moved and ripples appeared on the river, the little palaces didn’t vanish and had no intention of vanishing. They only gained in beauty.
Ciri looked in admiration at the little terraces, at the little towers resembling water lilies sticking up from water, at the little bridges suspended above the river like festoons of ivy, at the staircases, steps, balustrades, at the arcades and cloisters, at the peristyles, at the tall and short columns, at the large and small domes, at the slender pinnacles and towers resembling asparagus spears.
“Tir ná Lia,” Avallac’h said softly.
The closer they went, the more the beauty of the place seized her powerfully by the heart, more powerfully squeezed her throat, making tears well up in the corners of her eyes. Ciri looked at the fountains, at the mosaics and terracotta, and at the sculptures and monuments. At lacy constructions of whose purpose she couldn’t conceive. And at constructions she was certain served no purpose at all. Beside aesthetics and spreading harmony.
“Tir ná Lia,” repeated Avallac’h. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
“I have.” She felt the pressure on her throat. “I once saw something like this. In the ruins of Shaerrawedd.”
Now it was the elf’s turn to say nothing for a long while.
They crossed over the river on an openwork bridge, which seemed so fragile that Kelpie danced and snorted a long time before she was brave enough to step on it. Although agitated and tense, Ciri looked around attentively, not wanting to overlook anything, no sight that the fairy-tale city of Tir ná Lia offered. Firstly, she was simply consumed by curiosity, and secondly she couldn’t stop thinking
about escaping and so looked out watchfully for an opportunity.
She saw long-haired elves in close-fitting jerkins and short cloaks embroidered with fanciful flower- and leaf-shaped motifs walking on small bridges and terraces, along avenues and peristyles, on balconies and cloisters. She saw coiffured and provocatively made-up elf-women in gauzy dresses or androgynous ones in outfits resembling male costume. But then her eyes were drawn towards their now apparent destination.
Outside the portico of one of the palaces a familiar figure greeted them.
Eredin Bréacc Glas.
At his curt order, small, grey-attired elves swarmed around, quickly and silently taking care of their horses.
Ciri looked on somewhat amazed. Avallac’h, Eredin Bréacc Glas and all the other elves she had met before were extremely tall. She had to crane her neck to look them in the eyes. The small grey elves here though were shorter than her. A different race, she thought. A race of servants. Even here, in this fairy-tale world, there must be someone to do the work for the idle.
When they entered the palace, Ciri gasped. She was an infanta of royal blood, raised in palaces. But she had never seen such marble and malachite, such stuccos, floors, mosaics, mirrors and candelabras. She felt uncomfortable, awkward in that dazzling interior, out of place, dusty, sweaty and unwashed after her journey.
Avallac’h, quite the opposite, didn’t seem at all concerned. He brushed his breeches and boots with a glove, ignoring the fact that the dust was settling on the carpets and looking glasses. Then he tossed his gloves grandly to the grey little elf-woman bowing before him.
“Auberon?” he asked curtly. “Is he waiting?”
The warrior smiled inscrutably.
“Yes. He’s in a great hurry. He demanded that the Swallow go to him immediately, without a moment’s delay.”
“Good.”
Avallac’h set about to haste on, but the Commander of the Red Riders stopped him with his hand held up, ready to block his procession by barring his way. The Sage stopped abruptly, before the other man’s hand could make contact with his chest.
“I talked him out of it.”
Avallac’h raised his eyebrows.
“Zireael,” the other explained very calmly, “ought to go to the king free of cares, unburdened, rested, composed and in a good mood.”
Eredin Bréacc Glas looked at her.
“A bath, a new outfit, hairstyle and makeup will ensure that good mood. Auberon will probably be able to hold out that long, I think.”
Ciri sighed deeply, thankfully, and looked back at the elf. She was positively amazed at how kind he now seemed. The dark-haired elf smiled, revealing his even teeth.
“Only one thing arouses my reservations,” he declared. “And that is the aquiline glint in our Swallow’s eyes. Our Swallow is flashing her eyes left and right, quite like a stoat looking for holes in a cage. The Swallow, I see, is still far from unconditional surrender.”
Avallac’h didn’t comment. Ciri, naturally, didn’t either.
“I’m not surprised,” he continued. “It cannot be any other way, since it’s the blood of Shiadhal and Lara Dorren. But listen to me very attentively, Zireael.”
Ciri almost flinched since it was the first time the warrior addressed her directly in this conversation, although he had been looking at her for quite some time. The threatening flare in his piercing eyes made her doubt her own instincts. How could she have gotten the impression just a second ago that maybe Eredin Bréacc Glas was being the kind one of these two.
“There is no escape from here. There is no possibility of breaking Geas Garadh, the Spell of the Barrier.”
Ciri’s eyes clearly reflected that she wouldn’t believe it until she had tested it. But the elf had anticipated that much.
“Even if you were by some miracle to force through the Barrier—“ he didn’t take his eyes off her and Ciri could feel the blood rising in her chest “—then know that it would mean your doom. This world only looks pretty. But it carries death, particularly to the inexperienced. Even magic can’t heal a wound from a one-horn’s spike.”
Ciri tried to hold his gaze coolly. Tried to appear as calm and unwavering as the elves usually did. But she feared that the rising blush and her heavily pumping heart might betray her inner upheaval.
“Know also,” he continued, not waiting for a comment, “that your wild talent won’t help you at all. You won’t make the leap, so don’t even try. And even if you managed, know that my Dearg Ruadhri, my Red Riders, can catch up with you even in the abyss of times and places.”
Ciri gulped. She didn’t quite understand what he was talking about. But it puzzled her more that Avallac’h had suddenly become very quiet and veritably sullen. He was frowning, minutely, and was very evidently unhappy about the warrior’s speech… As though the Commander of the Dearg Ruadhri had said too much.
“Let us go,” he interrupted, before the other elf could divulge more. “Come this way, Zireael. We’ll hand you over to the ladies of the court. It’s necessary for you to look beautiful. The first impression is most important.”
So Avallac’h could change his mind quickly, as well. She would have to reconsider what she thought of him, too.
*
Her heart was pounding in her breast, the blood thrummed in her temples, her hands were shaking a little. She brought them under control by clenching her fists. She calmed herself with the help of deep breaths, loosened her shoulders, and moved her neck, stiff with nervousness.
The ladies of the court had taken her over from Avallac’h without many words. Apparently, they had been briefed beforehand, what to do with her, and none of them seemed too keen on exchanging encouraging words or even small talk with Ciri. She had already gotten used to this kind of impersonal, bordering on unfriendly treatment at the tower of the Swallow amongst the followers or servants of Avallac’h. Maybe this was just the general elven way. Nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the elf women weren’t especially happy about her presence. Or maybe they were just as disappointed as Eredin about her human appearance.
She observed herself once again in the large looking glass. The sight didn’t especially please her. Her hair, still damp from bathing, was neatly trimmed, combed and coiffed so it at least partly concealed her scar. Her weird feeling makeup emphasised her eyes and mouth in a for her previously unknown elven style. She was dressed in elvish couture. A shimmering silver-grey skirt slit to halfway up her thigh revealed lavishly buckled high elven boots. An embroidered black waistcoat paired with a revealing sheer blouse of pearl crepe underneath made her look very presentable with the waistcoat pushing her breasts up like a bodice. A flowing silk scarf around her neck highlighted it all compellingly.
Ciri adjusted and straightened the scarf, then reached between her thighs and adjusted what was necessary. She had on some truly sensational things beneath the skirt, panties as delicate as gossamer and stockings almost reaching her panties, which in some incredible way stayed up without garters.
She reached for the door handle. Hesitantly, as though it wasn’t a handle but a sleeping cobra.
Spet! She thought involuntarily in the elven tongue, I’ve fought against men with swords. I’ll take on one man with ...
She closed her eyes and sighed. And entered the chamber.
There was no one inside. A book and a carafe lay on the malachite table. There were strange reliefs on the walls, which were draped with heavy curtains and flowery tapestries. In one corner stood a statue of a beautiful elf. In another a four-poster bed.
Her heart began to pound again. She swallowed heavily.
That same moment, she saw a movement out of the corner of one eye. Not in the chamber. On the terrace.
He was sitting there, the Elven King, turned towards her in half-profile.
Although by now somewhat aware that among elves everything looked different to what she was accustomed to, Ciri experienced a slight shock.
All the time the king had been talked about, Goddess knew why, she had had in mind king Ervyll of Verden, whose daughter-in-law she had almost once become. Thinking about that king, she saw a bald headed large man immobilised by rolls of fat, breath stinking of beef and beer, with a red nose and bloodshot eyes visible above an unkempt beard, holding a sceptre and orb in his swollen hands, flecked with liver spots.
But a completely different king was sitting by the balustrade of the terrace.
It was apparent that he, too was very tall, but he was also very slim. His long hair was as ashen as hers, shot with snow-white streaks, long, and falling down onto his shoulders and back. He was dressed in a shimmering, gold embroidered, velvet jerkin and was wearing typical elven boots with numerous buckles running all the way up the leg to his thighs where a tight, supple looking pair of trousers became visible. His hands were slender and white, with long, well-defined fingers. His skin looked pale and flawless. Apart from a few wrinkles on his face he looked youthful and virile, nothing like Ervyll at all.
He was lounging languidly across a chair busy blowing soap bubbles, holding a small bowl of shimmering liquid and a glass straw, which he was blowing through. The iridescent, rainbow bubbles floated down towards the river.
Ciri cleared her throat softly.
The Elven King turned his head and Ciri was unable to suppress a gasp. His eyes were extraordinary. Silver and bright as molten lead, bottomless. And full of unimaginable sadness.
“Swallow,” he said lowly. “Zireael. Thank you for agreeing to come.”
Ciri swallowed, not knowing at all what to do or to say. Before she could decide if she should bow or curtsey or something like that, Auberon Muircetach had looked away again, put the straw back to his lips and sent another bubble into the air.
Ciri locked her fingers in order to stop them trembling, involuntarily cracking her knuckles. Then she nervously combed her hair awkwardly mindful of her scar. But the elf seemed to be immersed in his particular task, ignoring her fidgeting.
“Are you anxious?” He finally addressed her apropos of nothing.
“No,” she lied haughtily. “I’m not.”
“Are you hurrying somewhere?”
“Indeed I am.”
She must have put a little too much laxity into her voice, and felt she was crossing over the edge of good manners. But the elf wasn’t gracing her impudence with attention. He blew a huge bubble through the end of the straw, making it resemble a cucumber by rocking it. He admired his handiwork for a long time.
“Would I be a nuisance if I asked you where you’re in such a rush to get to?”
“Home!” she snapped, but at once corrected herself, adding in a calm tone. “To my world.”
“To what?”
“To my world!”
“Ah. Forgive me. I’d have sworn you said ‘To my quirk’. And I was indeed very amazed. You speak our language splendidly, but you could still work on your pronunciation and accent.”
“Is my accent important? After all, you don’t need me for conversation.”
“Nothing should stop us from striving for excellence.”
Another bubble sprang up at the end of the straw. When it broke away it drifted up and burst as it touched a willow branch.
Ciri shifted uncomfortably.
“So you’re in a hurry to get back to your world,” Auberon Muircetach picked up a moment later. “To yours! Indeed, you humans aren’t overly blessed with humility.”
He dipped the straw in the bowl, and with a seemingly careless blow encircled himself in a swarm of rainbow coloured shimmering bubbles.
“Humans”, he said. “Your hirsute forebear on the spear side appeared in the world much later than the hen. And I’ve never heard of any hens laying claim to the world ... Why are you fidgeting and hopping on the spot like a little monkey? What I’m saying ought to interest you. After all, it’s history. Ah, let me guess. History doesn’t interest you and bores you.”
A huge iridescent bubble floated towards the river.
Ciri said nothing, biting her lip.
“Your hirsute forebear,” the elf continued, stirring the mixture with the straw, “quickly learned how to use his opposable thumb and rudimentary intelligence. With their help he did various things, usually as amusing as they were woeful. That is, I meant to say that if the things your forebear did hadn’t been woeful, they would have been amusing.”
Another bubble, and, immediately after, a second and a third.
“We, the Aen Elle, were little concerned what foolishness your ancestor got up to. We, unlike our cousins, the Aen Seidhe, left that world long ago. We chose another, more interesting universe. For at that time - you’ll be astonished by what I say - one could move quite freely between the worlds. With a little talent and skill, naturally. Beyond all doubt you understand what I have in mind.”
Ciri was dying of curiosity, but remained stubbornly silent, aware that the elf was teasing her. She didn’t want to make his task any easier.
Auberon Muircetach smiled and turned around towards her. A golden necklace, his badge of office called a torc’h in the Elder Speech, glistened in the sunlight.
“Mire, luned.”
He blew softly, moving the straw around nimbly. Instead of one large bubble, as before, several of them hung from the end.
“A bubble beside a bubble, and another beside another,” he crooned. “Oh, that’s how it was, that’s how it was ... We used to say to ourselves, what’s the difference, we’ll spend some time here, some time there, so what if the Dh’oine insist on destroying their world along with themselves? We’ll go somewhere else ... To another bubble ... “
Ciri nodded and licked her lips under his now burning gaze. The elf smiled again, shook the bubbles, blew once again, this time creating a single large bunch from a myriad of small bubbles joined to each other at the end of the straw.
“The Conjunction came—“ the elf raised the straw, hung with bubbles “—and even more worlds were created.”
Ciri got what he was talking about. The Conjunction of the Spheres…
“But the door is closed. It is closed to all apart from a handful of chosen ones. And time is passing. The door ought to be reopened. Urgently. It’s imperative! Do you understand that word?”
“I’m not stupid.”
“No, of course you aren’t.” He turned his head away. “You can’t be. For you are Aen Hen Ichaer, of the Elder Blood. Come closer.”
When he reached towards her, she clenched her teeth involuntarily. But he only touched her forearm lightly before he took her hand. She felt a pleasant tingling and dared to look into his extraordinary, mesmerising, hypnotic eyes.
“I didn’t believe it when they said it,” he whispered and his voice flooded her veins. “But it’s true. You have Shiadhal’s eyes. Lara’s eyes.”
Ciri lowered her gaze. She felt insecure and foolish.
The Alder King released her hand and turned away, leaving Ciri rooted to the spot, feeling forsaken and dizzy, as if awakening from a trance.
Auberon Muircetach rested his elbow on the balustrade and his chin on his hand. For a long time, he seemed only to be interested in the swans gliding along the river.
“Thank you for coming,” he finally said, without turning his head.
“And now go and leave me alone.”
*
Ciri found Avallac’h on the terrace by the river just as he was boarding a boat in the company of a gorgeous elf-woman with straw-coloured hair. The elf-woman was wearing lipstick the colour of pistachios and flecks of golden glitter on her eyelids and temples.
Ciri was about to turn around and walk away when Avallac’h stopped her with a gesture and invited her into the boat with another. Ciri hesitated. She didn’t want to talk in front of witnesses. Avallac’h said something quickly to the elf-woman and blew her a kiss. The elf-woman shrugged and went away. She only turned around once, to show Ciri with a flash in her eyes what she thought of her as Ciri boarded the boat in her stead.
“What troubles you?”
“My meeting with your king.”
He heard her out, watching her with a strange smile.
“You’re saddened,” he stated rather than asked. “Confused, disappointed, but above all indignant.”
“Not at all! I’m not!”
“And you shouldn’t be.” Avallac’h became serious.
“Auberon treated you with reverence, like a born Aen Elle. Don’t forget, we, the Alder Folk, never hurry. We have time.”
“He told me something quite different.”
“I know what he told you.”
Ciri noted that Avallac’h as well as Eredin seemed to have a high enough standing in this society to not only have casual access to the king, but also to talk him out of things or knowing what he would talk to her about. Private topics.
“And what it’s all about, do you also know that?”
“Indeed.”
Ciri had already learned a great deal since entering the elven world. Not by sighing, not by rolling her eyes, not even by flickering an eyelid, did she betray her impatience or anger, when once again he put his pipes to his mouth and played. Melodiously, longingly. For a long time.
The boat glid along the river and Ciri counted the bridges passing over their heads.
“We have,” he finally said right after the fourth bridge, “more than serious grounds to suppose that your world is in danger of destruction. By a climactic cataclysm of immense scale. As a scholar you have certainly encountered what we call Aen Ithlinnespeath, Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien’s Prophecy.”
Of course, Ciri had heard about it. Mother Nenneke had even recited some of it when she and Yennefer had left the Temple of Melitele. But she had been young and the verses hadn’t meant much to her. Some ramblings about the end of the world in verse. Nothing she used to pay much attention to… until she had started to dream about it. Or better, to dream about people talking about it. The tree of hatred, the last branch with the last poisoned apple on it. The last child of the Elder Blood. Her.
Avallac’h didn’t wait for an answer and started reciting the more and more familiar feeling words.
“The Time of the Sword and Axe is nigh, the Era of the Wolf's Blizzard.
The Time of the White Frost and the White Light is nigh,
the Time of Madness and the Time of Contempt: Tedd Deireádh, the Time of End.
The world will perish amidst ice and be reborn with the new sun.
It will be reborn of the Elder Blood, of Hen Ichaer, of the seed that has been sown.
A seed which will not sprout but burst into flame.
Ess'tuath esse! So it shall be!
Watch for the signs! What signs these shall be, I say unto you:
First the earth will flow with the blood of Aen Seidhe, the Blood of the Elves.
Then the King of the South shall rise up against the Kings of the North,
and overrun their lands like a flood, they will be crushed, and their nations devastated.
And so shall begin the extinction of the world.
Who is far shall die at once; who is near shall fall from the sword;
who hides shall die of hunger, who survives shall perish from the frost.
For Tedd Deireadh, the Time of the End, the Time of the Sword and the Battle Axe,
the Time of Contempt , the Time of the White Frost and the Wolf’s Blizzard shall come.”
“There is talk of the White Frost in the prophecy. According to us it concerns extensive glaciation. And because it so happens that ninety per cent of the land of your world is in the northern hemisphere, this glaciation may endanger the existence of most living creatures. They will simply perish from the cold. Those that survive will fall into barbarism, will destroy each other in merciless battles for food, or become prey to predators insane with hunger.”
Ciri didn’t interrupt, fearing he would begin playing his pipes again.
“The child that matters so much to us,” continued Avallac’h, fiddling with his pipes, “the descendant and bearer of the Lara Dorren gene, the gene that was specially constructed by us, may save the denizens of that world. Your world. We have reason to believe that the descendant of Lara -and of you, naturally- will possess abilities a thousandfold more powerful than that which we, the Knowing Ones, possess. And which you possess - in rudimentary form. You know what this is about, don’t you?”
Ciri had come to learn that in the Elder Speech such rhetorical devices, although apparently questions, not only did not demand, but quite simply did not brook, a response.
“In short,” Avallac’h continued, “it concerns the possibility of transferring between worlds not only oneself, one’s own-indeed-insignificant person. It concerns the opening of Ard Gaeth, the great and permanent Gateway, through which everyone would pass. We managed to do it before the Conjunction, and we want to achieve it now. We will evacuate from the dying world the Aen Seidhe residing there. Our brothers, to whom we owe it to help. We wouldn’t be able to live with the thought that we had abandoned anything. And we shall rescue, evacuate from that world, everyone who is in danger. Everyone, Zireael. Dh’oine too.”
“Really?” She couldn’t hold it back. “Humans too?”
“Dh’oine too. Now you see for yourself how important you are, how much depends on you. How important a thing it is for you to remain patient. How important a thing it is for you to go to Auberon this evening and stay all night. Believe me, his behaviour wasn’t a demonstration of enmity. He knows that this isn’t an easy matter for you, that he might hurt and discourage you by being importunately hasty. He is wise and knows a great deal, O Swallow. I don’t doubt you’ve noticed.”
“I have,” she snapped. “I’ve also noticed that the current has borne us quite far from Tir ná Lia. Time to take up the oars. Which I can’t see here, as a matter of fact.”
“Because there aren’t any.” Avallac’h raised an arm, twisted his hand and snapped his fingers. The boat stopped. It rested for a while in place, and then began to move against the current.
The elf made himself more comfortable, put his pipes to his lips and gave himself over entirely to his music.
*
In the evening the Alder King entertained Ciri to supper. When she entered, again rustling silk, he invited her to the table with a gesture. There were no servants. He served her himself.
The supper consisted of over a dozen kinds of vegetables. There were mushrooms, boiled and simmered in a sauce. Ciri had never eaten mushrooms like them before either. Some of them were as white and thin as dainty leaves, tasted delicate and mild, and others were brown and black, fleshy and aromatic.
Auberon was also generous with the rosé wine. Seemingly light, it went to her head, relaxed her, and loosened her tongue. The next thing she knew she was telling him things she never thought she would.
He listened. Patiently. And then, when she suddenly remembered why she was there. She turned gloomy and fell silent.
“As I understand it—“ he served her quite new mushrooms, greenish and smelling of apple pie “—you think that destiny connects you to this Geralt?”
“Precisely so.” She raised a cup now marked with numerous smudges of her silvery lipstick. “Destiny. He, I mean Geralt, is linked to me by destiny, and I am to him. Our destinies are conjoined. So it would be better if I went away from here. Right away. Do you understand?”
“I confess that I don’t quite.”
“Destiny!” She took a sip. “A force which it’s better not to get in the way of. Which is why I think ... No, no thank you, don’t serve me any more, please, I’ve eaten so much I think I’ll burst.”
“You mentioned thinking.”
“I think it was a mistake to lure me here. And force me to ... Well, you know what I mean. I must get away from here, and hurry to help him ... Because it’s my destiny—“
“Destiny,” he interrupted, raising his glass. “Predestination. Something that is inevitable. A mechanism which means that a practically unlimited number of unforeseeable events must end with the same result and no other. Is that right?”
“Certainly!”
“Then whence and wherefore do you wish to go? Drink your wine, enjoy the moment, delight in life. What is to come will come, if it’s inevitable.”
“Like hell. It’s not that easy.”
“You’re contradicting yourself.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re contradicting your contradiction, and that’s a vicious circle.”
“No!” She tossed her head. “You can’t just sit and do nothing! Nothing comes by itself!”
“Sophistry.”
“You can’t waste time unthinkingly! You might overlook the right moment ... That one right, unique moment. For time never repeats itself.”
“Permit me.” He stood up. “Look at that, over there.”
On the wall he was pointing at was a protruding relief portraying an immense, scaly snake. The reptile, curled up in a figure of eight, was sinking its great teeth into its own tail. Ciri had once seen something like it, but couldn’t remember where.
“There,” said the elf. “The ancient serpent Ouroboros. Ouroboros symbolises eternity and is itself eternal. It is the eternal going away and the eternal return. It is something that has no beginning and no end. Time is like the ancient Ouroboros. Time is fleeting moments, grains of sand passing through an hourglass. Time is the moments and events we so readily try to measure. But the ancient Ouroboros reminds us that in every moment, in every instant, in every event, is hidden the past, the present and the future. Eternity is hidden in every moment. Every departure is at once a return, every farewell is a greeting, every return is a parting. Everything is simultaneously a beginning and an end.”
“And you too,” he said, not looking at her at all, “are at once the beginning and the end. And because we are discussing destiny, know that it is precisely your destiny. To be the beginning and the end. Do you understand?”
She hesitated for a moment. But his glowing eyes forced her to answer.
“I do.”
“Get undressed.”
He said it so casually, so indifferently, she almost yelled in anger. But instead, to her own surprise, she began to unfasten her waistcoat with trembling hands.
Her fingers were disobedient; the hooks and eyes, little buttons and ribbons awkward and tight. Though Ciri tried to hasten to comply as fast as she could, wanting to get everything over as quickly as possible, the undressing lasted an annoyingly long time. But the elf didn’t give the impression of being in a hurry. As though he really had the whole of eternity at his disposal.
Who knows, she thought, perhaps he has?
Finally, completely undressed, she shuffled from foot to foot, the floor chilling her feet. He noticed it and pointed wordlessly to the bed.
The bedclothes were made of mink. Of mink pelts sewn into great sheets. Wonderfully soft, warm and pleasantly ticklish.
Auberon lay down beside her, fully dressed, even in his boots. It made her feel even smaller next to him.
When he reached out to caress her, she flinched and tensed up, involuntarily, a little angry at herself, for she had decided to act proud and impassive, as if it wasn’t such a big venture for her. Her teeth, whether she liked it or not, were chattering somewhat.
Auberon’s presence was overwhelming and the thought of his touch frightened her. She didn’t dare to look into his tantalising eyes and closed hers, instead.
Ciri tried to imagine it was someone she had been with, before, that it was Mistle. But she was unable to. For he was so unlike Mistle. She tried to think of any other man, maybe one she’d feel more comfortable with, to relax into the situation, and random faces popped up in her mind. Prince Kistrin of Verden, who she was supposed to marry could have been the one lying next to her, Jarre, the Ellandrian scribe at the Temple of Melitele who had an obvious crush on her, and Giselher, the charismatic leader of the Rats… but these were all boys and in no way did the thought of one of them help her get her mind off the Elder King’s overpowering male radiance.
As his strong hand alighted easily and calmly on her shoulder, just one face appeared before her to match the gravity of the touch. Geralt’s.
Ciri sighed and let the warmth of Auberon’s palm reassure her.
Her body instinctively remembered the unintimidating touch of the Witcher’s strong fingers. His undeniably manly but guarding aura. She had always thought of him as some kind of father figure, a mentor until now, just like Eist, Mousesack, or Vesemir, but if she was being honest with herself, she knew why her mind betrayed her with his picture lying next to her on the bed. Fully clothed, apart from his discarded weapons. She had seen Geralt lying like that on his bedroll next to a campfire many times. Roach dozing behind him, his swords at his head’s end always within reach, poking around in the fire with some stick…
Lying on his side propped up on an elbow looking down on her with his disconcertingly piercing cat eyes which were eerily reflecting the flames in the twilight. The upper one of his muscled thighs slumped before and across the other with his knee touching the ground, usually, but now denting the bed close to her hip radiating his body heat.
The back of his fingers slid slowly down from her shoulder – first along her outer upper arm, and then the ticklish inside of her forearm.
Ciri shuddered.
He took her tiny hand firmly in his large one and guided her hand to lie heavily on her nervously heaving belly. Letting her breathe for a few moments until he guided her further. Let her hand stroke down her mound and cup herself.
Once she had begun to understand the suggestions of the pressure on her hand and fingers, she was almost anticipating them and gasped breathily. He instructed her with his hand.
Pressed her own fingers between her folds and along her lips. Curved and rubbed them around her budding nub and pushed them inside her throbbing wetness.
He taught her and commanded her. She obeyed. Willingly. Urgently. Moaningly.
He didn’t hurry at all.
He made her soften beneath his caresses like a silk ribbon.
Made her bite her reddening lips.
Made her midst curve up from the bed whimpering.
He made her moan, twist and finally jerk in a sudden, shocking spasm. She cried out and colours exploded behind her closed eyes like all of Auberon’s glimmering soap bubbles popping in a grand crescendo.
What he did then, she hadn’t expected at all.
He stood up and walked away. Leaving her aroused, panting and trembling on his bed.
He left the room and didn’t even look back.
The blood struck Ciri’s face and temples. She curled up in a ball on the mink sheets and sobbed.
From rage, shame and humiliation.
*