She was silent.

‘Complete the sentence, Yen. You’ve decided. Don’t lie. I know you. I can see it in your eyes.’

She did not lower her eyes. He knew.

‘Yen,’ he whispered.

‘Give me your hand,’ she said.

She took his hand between hers and at once he felt a tingling and the pulsing of blood in the veins of his forearm. Yennefer whispered a spell in a serene, measured voice, but he saw the beads of sweat which the effort caused to stipple her pale forehead, saw her pupils dilate in pain.

Releasing his arm, she extended her hands, and moved them, smoothing an invisible shape with tender strokes, slowly, from top to bottom. The air between her fingers began to congeal and become turbid, swell and pulsate like smoke.

He watched in fascination. Creational magic–considered the most elevated accomplishment among sorcerers–always fascinated him, much more than illusions or transformational magic. Yes, Istredd was right, he thought. In comparison with this kind of magic my Signs just look ridiculous.

The form of a bird, as black as coal, slowly materialised between Yennefer’s hands, which were trembling with effort. The sorceress’ fingers gently stroked the ruffled feathers, the small, flattened head and curved beak. One more hypnotically fluid, delicate movement and a black kestrel, turning its head, cried loudly. Its twin, still sitting motionless on the antlers, gave an answering cry.

‘Two kestrels,’ Geralt said softly. ‘Two black kestrels, created by magic. I presume you need them both.’

‘You presume right,’ she said with effort. ‘I need them both. I was wrong to believe one would suffice. How wrong I was, Geralt. To what an error the vanity of the Ice Queen, convinced of her omnipotence, has brought me. For there are some… things… which there is no way of obtaining, even by magic. And there are gifts which may not be accepted, if one is unable to… reciprocate them… with something equally precious. Otherwise such a gift will slip through the fingers, melt like a shard of ice gripped in the hand. Then only regret, the sense of loss and hurt will remain…’

‘Yen—’

‘I am a sorceress, Geralt… The power over matter which I possess is a gift. A reciprocated gift. For it I paid… with everything I possessed. Nothing remained.’

He said nothing. The sorceress wiped her forehead with a trembling hand.

‘I was mistaken,’ she repeated. ‘But I shall correct my mistake. Emotions and feelings…’

She touched the black kestrel’s head. The bird fluffed up its feathers and silently opened its curved beak.

‘Emotions, whims and lies, fascinations and games. Feelings and their absence. Gifts, which may not be accepted. Lies and truth. What is truth? The negation of lies? Or the statement of a fact? And if the fact is a lie, what then is the truth? Who is full of feelings which torment him, and who is the empty carapace of a cold skull? Who? What is truth, Geralt? What is the essence of truth?’