Nimue knew, of course, that a dream-reader as able as Condwiramurs dreamed with all her senses–she didn’t only experience the dream with sight, like most people, but also with her hearing, touch, smell–even taste.

‘No.’ Condwiramurs shook her head. ‘Only…’

‘Yes, yes?’

‘A thought. A stubborn thought. That by this lake, in this tower, I’m not the mistress at all, but a captive.’

‘Follow me.’

Just as Condwiramurs had guessed, the way to the terrace was only possible through the sorceress’s private chambers, which were utterly clean, pedantically tidy, smelling of sandalwood, myrrh, lavender and naphthalene. They had to use a tiny door and a winding staircase leading downwards.

This chamber, unlike the others, didn’t have wood panelling or tapestries. It was simply painted white and was thus very bright. It was all the brighter since there was a huge triptych window, or rather a glass door, leading straight onto the terrace perched above the lake.

The only pieces of furniture in the chamber were two armchairs, an immense looking glass in an oval, mahogany frame and a kind of rack with a horizontal bar and a tapestry draped over it. The tapestry measured about five foot by seven and its tassels rested on the floor. It showed a rocky cliff over a tarn, and a castle carved into the cliff, which seemed to be part of the rock wall. A castle Condwiramurs knew well from numerous illustrations.

‘Vilgefortz’s citadel, Yennefer’s place of imprisonment. The place where the legend ended.’

‘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—’