It is not. We do not have to capture that power. For we have always had it.

Trust them, requested Ihuarraquax. Trust, Star-Eye.

‘Under one condition.’

The unicorns jerked up their heads and flared their nostrils. You would have sworn sparks were shooting from their eyes. They don’t like it, thought Ciri, when conditions are imposed on them. They don’t even like the sound of the word. Spet, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing… Let’s hope it doesn’t end tragically…

Speak. What is the condition?

‘Ihuarraquax will be with me.’

In the evening it clouded over, became close. A thick, sticky mist rose from the river. And when darkness fell over Tir ná Lia, a storm sounded with a dull, distant growl. Every now and then the glow of lightning lit the horizon.

Ciri had been ready a long time. Dressed in black, with sword on her back, anxious and tense, she waited impatiently for dusk.

She passed quietly through the empty vestibule, stole through the colonnade and onto the terrace. The River Easnadh sparkled in the darkness, willows soughed.

Distant thunder rolled across the sky.

Ciri led Kelpie out of the stable. The mare knew what was expected of her. She trotted obediently towards the Porphyry Bridge. For a moment Ciri followed her tracks, then glanced at the terrace beside which the boats stood.

I can’t, she thought. I’ll appear before him once more. Perhaps I’ll manage to delay the pursuers by doing it? It’s risky, but there’s no other way.

In the first moment she thought he wasn’t there, that the royal chambers were empty. Because they were silent and lifeless.

She only noticed him after a moment. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, a white shirt gaping open on his skinny chest. The shirt was made of stuff so fine it clung to his body as though wet.

The Alder King’s face and hands were almost as white as his shirt.

He raised his eyes towards her, and there was a void in them.

‘Shiadhal?’ he whispered. ‘I’m glad you are here. You know, they told me you had died.’

He opened his hand and something fell onto the carpet. It was the flacon of grey-green nephrite. ‘Lara.’ The Alder King moved his head, and touched his neck as though his royal torc’h was garrotting him. ‘Caemm a me, luned. Come to me, daughter. Caemm a me, elaine.’

Ciri sensed death in his breath.

‘Elaine blath, feainne wedd…’ he sang. ‘Mire, luned, your ribbon has come undone… Allow me…’

He tried to lift his hand, but he was unable to. He sighed deeply, raised his hand abruptly, and looked her in the eyes. This time lucidly.

‘Zireael,’ he said. ‘Loc’hlaith. You are indeed destiny, O Lady of the Lake. Mine too, as it transpires.

Va’esse deireadh aep eigean…’ he said a moment later, and Ciri observed with dread that his words and movements had begun to slow down horribly.