‘A forgery. When the Door was opened and the elves departed, they took away with them or destroyed every work of art, leaving not a single painting. We don’t know if the Daisy of the Valleys was really as comely as the tales have it. We have no idea at all what Ida Emean looked like. And since in Nilfgaard images of sorceresses were destroyed very diligently and thoroughly, we don’t have any idea about the true appearances of Assire var Anahid or Fringilla Vigo.’

‘Let’s suppose and agree that they all looked exactly as they were later portrayed,’ sighed Condwiramurs. ‘Dignified, imperious, good and wise, foresighted and noble. And beautiful, captivatingly beautiful… Let’s suppose that. Then it’s somehow easier to live.’

The daily activities on Inis Vitre took on the character of a somewhat tiresome routine. The analysis of Condwiramurs’ dreams, beginning at breakfast, usually dragged on all the way to midday. The novice spent the time between noon and their next meal taking walks–which also quickly became habitual and quite boring. No wonder. In the course of an hour one could go around the island twice, feasting one’s eyes all the while on such engrossing things as granite, a dwarf pine, pebbles, freshwater mussels, water and gulls.

After lunch and a long siesta followed discussions, the inspection of tomes, scrolls and manuscripts, the study of pictures, prints and maps. And long debates about the mutual inter-relationships between legend and truth extending into the night…

And then the nights and dreams. Various dreams. Celibacy made itself felt. At times, instead of the mysteries of the Witcher legend, Condwiramurs dreamed of the Fisher King in all sorts of situations, from extremely non-erotic to extremely erotic. In an extremely non-erotic dream The Fisher King was dragging her behind his boat on a rope. He was rowing slowly and languidly, so she was sinking, drowning, spluttering, and on top of that a terrible fear was tormenting her–she felt that something had pushed off the lake bottom and was swimming up towards her, something awful, something that wanted to swallow the bait–her–being pulled behind the boat. That something was on the point of seizing her when the Fisher King leaned more heavily on the oars, pulling her out of range of the invisible predator’s jaws. As she was dragged along she choked on water and at that moment she awoke.

In an unambiguously erotic dream she was kneeling on the bottom of the rocking boat, hanging over the side, and The Fisher King was holding her by the shoulders and fucking her exuberantly, grunting, hawking and spitting as he did so. Apart from the physical pleasure, Condwiramurs felt gut-wrenching terror–what would happen if Nimue caught them at it? She suddenly saw the face of the little sorceress rocking in the lake… and she awoke, soaked in sweat.

Then she got up and opened the window, luxuriated in the night air, the light of the moon and the mist rolling off the lake.