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Contents ( 57)
  2. Sword of Destiny
  3. THE BOUNDS OF REASON
  4. I
  5. II
  6. III
  7. IV
  8. V
  9. VI
  10. VII
  11. VIII
  12. A SHARD OF ICE
  13. I
  14. II
  15. III
  16. IV
  17. V
  18. VI
  19. VII
  20. VIII
  21. IX
  22. ETERNAL FLAME
  23. I
  24. II
  25. III
  26. IV
  27. A LITTLE SACRIFICE
  28. I
  29. II
  30. III
  31. IV
  32. V
  33. VI
  34. VII
  35. VIII
  36. IX
  37. X
  38. THE SWORD OF DESTINY
  39. I
  40. II
  41. III
  42. IV
  43. V
  44. VI
  45. VII
  46. VIII
  47. SOMETHING MORE
  48. I
  49. II
  50. III
  51. IV
  52. V
  53. VI
  54. VII
  55. VIII
  56. IX

‘Don’t cry. Nothing evil can happen to you here.’

Ciri sniffed. The Witcher stood up.

‘Farewell, Braenn,’ he said to the younger dryad. ‘Good health and take care. Survive, Braenn; live as long as your tree. Like Brokilon. And one more thing…’

‘Yes, Gwynbleidd?’ Braenn lifted her head and something wet glistened in her eyes.

‘It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. How easy it is to release the bowstring and think, it is not I, not I, it is the arrow. The blood of that boy is not on my hands. The arrow killed him, not I. But the arrow does not dream anything in the night. May you dream nothing in the night either, blue-eyed dryad. Farewell, Braenn.’

‘Mona…’ Braenn said indistinctly. The goblet she was holding shuddered and the transparent liquid filling it rippled.

‘What?’

‘Mona!’ she wailed. ‘I am Mona! Lady Eithné! I—’

‘Enough of this,’ Eithné said sharply. ‘Enough. Control yourself, Braenn.’

Geralt laughed drily.

‘There you have your destiny, Lady of the Forest. I respect your doggedness and your fight. But I know that soon you will be fighting alone. The last dryad of Brokilon sending dryads–who nonetheless still remember their real names–to their deaths. In spite of everything I wish you fortune, Eithné. Farewell.’

‘Geralt…’ Ciri whispered, still sitting motionless, with her head lowered. ‘Don’t leave me… all by myself…’

‘White Wolf,’ Eithné said, embracing the little girl’s hunched back. ‘Did you have to wait until she asked you? Not to abandon her? To remain with her until the end? Why do you wish to abandon her at this moment? To leave her all alone? Where do you wish to flee to, Gwynbleidd? And from what?’

Ciri’s head slumped further down. But she did not cry.

‘Until the end,’ the Witcher said, nodding. ‘Very well, Ciri. You will not be alone. I will be with you. Do not fear anything.’

Eithné took the goblet from Braenn’s trembling hands and raised it up.

‘Can you read Old Runes, White Wolf?’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘Read what is engraved on the goblet. It is from Craag An. It was drunk from by kings whom no one now remembers.’

‘Duettaeánn aef cirrán Cáerme Gláeddyv. Yn á esseáth.’

‘Do you know what that means?’

‘The Sword of Destiny has two blades… You are one of them.’

‘Stand up, Child of the Elder Blood.’ The dryad’s voice clanged like steel in an order which could not be defied, a will which had to be yielded to. ‘Drink. It is the Water of Brokilon.’

Geralt bit his lips and stared at Eithné’s silver eyes. He did not look at Ciri, who was slowly bringing her lips to the edge of the goblet. He had seen it before, once, long ago. The convulsions, the tremors; the incredible, horrifying, slowly dwindling cry. And the emptiness, torpor and apathy in the slowly opening eyes. He had seen it before.

Ciri drank. A tear rolled slowly down Braenn’s unmoving face.

‘That will do,’ Eithné took the goblet away, placed it on the ground, and stroked the little girl’s hair, which fell onto her shoulders in mousy waves.