‘Oh my, oh my,’ said Yennefer, tilting her head back so that her hair, damp from the steam, spread over the edge like little black vipers. ‘Oh my… oh.’

‘I love you, Yen.’

‘I love you, Geralt.’

‘It’s time. We’ll call them.’

‘We’ll call them.’

They called. First the Witcher called, and then Yennefer called. Then, not having heard any reaction, they yelled in unison.

‘Now! We’re ready! Give us that knife! Heeey! Dammit! The water’s cooling down!’

‘Get out of there,’ said Ciri, peeping into the bathroom. ‘They’ve all gone.’

‘What?’

‘I’m telling you. They’ve gone. Apart from us three there isn’t a living soul here. Get dressed. You look awfully funny in the nude.’

As they were dressing, their hands began to tremble. Both Geralt’s and Yennefer’s. They had great difficulty coping with the hooks and eyes, clasps and buttons. Ciri was jabbering away.

‘They rode away. Just like that. All of them, as many as there were of them. They took everyone from here, mounted their horses and rode away. As fast as they could.’

‘Didn’t they leave anybody?’

‘Nobody at all.’

‘That’s staggering,’ whispered Geralt. ‘It’s staggering.’

‘Has anything happened—’ Yennefer cleared her throat ‘—to explain it?’

‘No,’ Ciri quickly replied. ‘Nothing.’

She was lying.

At first she put on a brave front. Erect, with head haughtily raised and stony-faced, she pushed away the gloved hands of the black-cloaked knights, looking boldly and defiantly at the menacing nose-guards and visors of their helmets. They didn’t touch her any longer, particularly since they were stopped from doing so by the growl of an officer, a broad-shouldered soldier with silver braid and a white heron-feather plume.

She walked towards the exit, escorted on both sides. With her head proudly raised. Heavy boots thudded, mail shirts clanked and weapons jingled.

After a dozen paces she looked back for the first time. After the next few the second time. Why, I’ll never, ever see them again. The thought flashed with terrifying and cool clarity beneath her crown. Neither Geralt nor Yennefer. Never.

That awareness immediately, all at once, wiped away the mask of feigned courage. Ciri’s face contorted and grimaced, her eyes filled with tears and her nose ran. The girl fought with all her strength, but in vain. A wave of tears breached the dam of pretence.

The Nilfgaardians with salamanders on their cloaks looked at her in silence and amazement. Some of them had seen her on the bloody staircase, all of them had seen her in conversation with the emperor. The witcher girl with a sword, the unvanquished witcher girl, arrogantly challenging the imperator to his face. And now they were surprised to see a snivelling, sobbing child.

She was aware of it. Their eyes burned her like fire, pricked her like pins. She fought, but ineffectively. The more powerfully she held back her tears, the more powerfully they exploded.