‘Hell must indeed be dreadful,’ he roared, ‘if you’ve chosen me.’

She didn’t reply. She could smell alcohol on his breath.

‘And maybe hell didn’t want you, you little beast? Perhaps that devilish tower spat you out in disgust, after tasting your venom?’

He drew her closer. She turned aside and drew back her face.

‘You’re right,’ he said softly. ‘You’re right to be afraid. It’s the end of your road. You won’t escape from here. Here, in this castle, I’ll bleed you dry.’

‘Have you finished, Mr Bonhart?’

She knew at once who had spoken. The sorcerer Vilgefortz, who first of all had been a prisoner in manacles, and afterwards pursued her in the Tower of the Gull. He had been very handsome then, on the island. Now something in his face had changed, something that made it ugly and fearful.

‘Mr Bonhart—’ the sorcerer didn’t even move on his throne-like armchair ‘—let me assume the pleasant duty of welcoming to Stygga Castle our guest, Miss Cirilla of Cintra, the daughter of Pavetta, the granddaughter of Calanthe, the descendant of the famous Lara Dorren aep Shiadhal. Greetings. Please come closer.’

The derision hidden beneath the mask of civility slipped out from the sorcerer’s last words. There was nothing but a threat and an order in them. Ciri felt at once that she would be unable to resist that order. She felt fear. Ghastly fear.

‘Closer,’ hissed Vilgefortz. Now she noticed what was wrong with his face. His left eye, considerably smaller than his right, blinked, flickered and spun around like a mad thing in the wrinkled, grey-blue eye socket. The sight was gruesome.

‘A brave pose, a trace of fear in the face,’ said the sorcerer, tilting his head. ‘My acknowledgements. Assuming your courage doesn’t result from stupidity. I shall dispel any possible fantasies at once. You will not escape from here, as Mr Bonhart correctly observed. Neither by teleportation, nor with the help of your own special abilities.’

She knew he was right. Previously, she had persuaded herself that if it came to it she would always–even at the last moment–be able to flee and hide amidst times and places. Now she knew that was an illusory hope, a fantasy. The castle positively vibrated with strange, evil, hostile magic, and that magic was pervading, penetrating her. It crawled like a parasite over her innards, repulsively slithering over her brain. She could do nothing about it. She was in her enemy’s power. Helpless.

Too bad, she thought, I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was coming here for. The rest was really just fantasy. May what has to happen, happen.

‘Well done,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘An accurate assessment of the situation. What must happen, will happen. Or more precisely: what I decide will happen, will happen. I wonder if you’re also guessing, my splendid one, what I shall decide?’

She was about to answer, but before she could overcome the resistance of her tight, dry throat, he anticipated her by reading her thoughts.