The Lady of the Lake cut her off. ‘Because your endocrine glands function in some abnormal way. Your dreams, to trivialise them somewhat, are nothing more than endorphin released into the body. Like most native, magical gifts yours is also mundanely organic. But why am I talking about something you know perfectly well yourself? Go on, what other dreams do you remember?’

‘A young lad.’ Condwiramurs frowned. ‘Wandering among desolate fields, with a bundle over his shoulder. The fields are barren, it’s spring. Willows by the roads and on the baulks. Willows, twisted, full of hollows, spreading their branches… Naked, not yet in leaf. The lad is walking, looking around. Night falls. Stars appear in the sky. One of them is moving. It’s a comet. A reddish, twinkling spark, cutting slantways across the horizon.’

‘Well done,’ Nimue smiled. ‘Although I have no idea who you were dreaming about, we can at least precisely determine the date of the event. The red comet was visible for six days in the spring of the year the Cintran Peace was signed. To be more precise, in the first days of March. Did any date markers appear in the other dreams?’

‘My dreams,’ snapped Condwiramurs, salting her egg, ‘are not a farmer’s calendar. They don’t have charts with dates! But, to be precise, I dreamed a dream about the Battle of Brenna, after having a good look at the canvas of Nikolai Certosa in your gallery. And the date of the Battle of Brenna is also known. It’s the same date as the year of the comet. Am I wrong?’

‘You aren’t. Was there anything special in the dream about the battle?’

‘No. A seething mass of horses, people and weapons. Soldiers were fighting and yelling. Someone, probably a bit dim, was wailing, “Eagles! Eagles!” ’

‘What else? You said it was a whole pageant of dreams.’

‘I don’t remember…’ Condwiramurs broke off.

Nimue smiled.

‘Oh, all right.’ The novice lifted up her nose haughtily, not letting the Lady of the Lake make a spiteful remark. ‘I occasionally forget, naturally. No one’s perfect. I repeat, my dreams are visions, not library cards—’

‘I know,’ interrupted Nimue. ‘This isn’t a test of your dream-reading abilities; it’s an analysis of a legend. Of its mysteries and gaps. We’re doing pretty well, as a matter of fact. In the first dreams you already identified the girl in the portrait, Ciri’s double, with whom Vilgefortz tried to hoodwink Emperor Emhyr.’

They stopped, because the Fisher King had entered the kitchen. After bowing and grunting he took a loaf of bread, a tureen and a small, linen bundle. He went out, not forgetting to bow and grunt.

‘He’s limping badly,’ said Nimue, seemingly offhandedly. ‘He was seriously wounded. A wild boar gashed open his leg during a hunt. That’s why he spends so much time in the boat. When he’s rowing and catching fish the wound doesn’t bother him. In the boat he forgets about his disability. He’s a very decent and good man. And I…’