‘That is so.’ Nimue nodded, apparently indifferently. ‘The legend ended there, at least in its known versions. It’s those versions we know, so we think we know the ending. Ciri fled from the Tower of the Swallow, where, as you dreamed it, she had been a prisoner. When she realised what they wanted to do to her, she escaped. The legend gives many versions of her flight—’

‘The one I like most,’ cut in Condwiramurs, ‘is the one where she threw objects behind her. A comb, an apple and a neckerchief. But—’

‘Condwiramurs.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘As I said, there are myriad versions of the escape. But it is still none too clear how Ciri reached Vilgefortz’s castle straight from the Tower of the Swallow. You couldn’t dream the Tower of the Swallow, could you? Try dreaming the castle. Examine that tapestry carefully… Are you listening to me?’

‘That looking glass… It’s magical, isn’t it?’

‘No. I squeeze my pimples in front of it.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘It’s Hartmann’s looking glass,’ explained Nimue, seeing the novice’s wrinkled nose and sullen expression. ‘Look into it, if you wish. But please be cautious.’

‘Is it true,’ asked Condwiramurs in a voice trembling with excitement, ‘that from Hartmann’s looking glass you can pass into other—’

‘Worlds? Indeed. But not at once, not without preparation, meditation, concentration and a whole host of other things. When I recommended caution I was thinking about something else.’

‘What?’

‘It works both ways. Something may also emerge from Hartmann’s looking glass.’

‘Know what, Nimue… When I look at that tapestry—’

‘Have there been dreams?’

‘Yes. But strange ones. From a bird’s eye view. I was a bird… I saw the castle from the outside. I couldn’t go inside. Something barred my way.’

‘Look at the tapestry,’ commanded Nimue. ‘Look at the citadel. Look at it carefully; focus your attention on every detail. Concentrate hard; etch that image deeply into your memory. I want you to get there in your dream, to go inside. It’s important for you to go inside.’

A truly devilish gale must have been raging outside, beyond the castle walls. The fire was roaring in the grate, quickly consuming the logs. Yennefer was delighting in the warmth. Her current prison was, admittedly, much, much warmer than the dank dungeon where she had spent the last two months, but despite her delight her teeth still chattered. She had completely lost track of time, and no one had hurried to inform her about the date, but she was certain it was December, or perhaps even January.

‘Eat, Yennefer,’ said Vilgefortz. ‘Don’t be shy, tuck in.’

The sorceress had no intention of being shy. If, though, she was coping quite slowly and awkwardly with the chicken, it was only because her barely healed fingers were still clumsy and stiff. It was hard work to hold a knife and fork in them. And she didn’t want to eat with her fingers–she wanted to show Vilgefortz and the other diners, the sorcerer’s guests, that she was stronger than they believed. She didn’t know any of them.