‘The widow is buried there, beyond that crooked little birch,’ he said at last, looking without fear into the girl’s green eyes. ‘She died of pneumonia in the winter of the year. And Nycklar joined the army somewhere in foreign parts… Folks say he fell in the war.’

‘I forgot,’ she whispered. ‘I forgot that destiny tied both of them to me.’

She approached the small burial mound and knelt down, or rather fell onto one knee. She bent over low, very low, her forehead almost touching the stones around the base. Peg Leg saw the white-haired man make a movement, as though meaning to dismount, but the black-haired woman caught him by the arm, stopping him with a gesture and a look.

The horses snorted, shook their heads, the rings of their bits jingling.

The girl knelt for a long, long time at the foot of the burial mound, bent over, and her mouth moved in some silent litany.

She staggered as she stood up. Peg Leg held her up instinctively. She flinched hard, jerked her elbow away, and looked at him malevolently through her tears. But she didn’t say a word. She even thanked him with a nod when he held her stirrup for her.

‘Yes, noble Miss Falka,’ he dared to say. ‘Fate ran a strange course. You were in grievous strife then, in bitter times… Few of us here in Jealousy thought you’d get out of it alive… And finally you’re healthy today, my lady, and Goulue and Nycklar are in the beyond. There’s not even anyone to thank, eh? To repay for the burial mound—’

‘My name’s not Falka,’ she said harshly. ‘My name’s Ciri. And as far as thanks are concerned—’

‘Feel honoured by her,’ the black-haired woman interjected coldly, and there was something in her voice that made Peg Leg tremble.

‘Grace, gratitude and reward have befallen you, you and your entire settlement. You know not even how great,’ said the black-haired woman, slowly enunciating her words. ‘For the burial mound. For your humanity, and for your human dignity and decency.’

On the ninth of April, soon after midnight, the first residents of Claremont were awoken by a flickering brightness, a red blaze, that struck and flooded into the windows of their homesteads. The rest of the town’s residents were roused from their beds by screams, commotion and the insistent sounds of the bell tolling the alarm.

Only one building was burning. It was huge and wooden, formerly a temple, once consecrated to a deity whose name even the oldest grandmothers couldn’t remember. A temple, now converted into an amphitheatre, where animal-baiting, fights and other entertainment was held, capable of hauling the small town of Claremont out of its boredom, depression and drowsy torpor.

It was the amphitheatre that was now burning in a sea of roaring fire, shaking from explosions. Ragged tongues of flame, several yards long, shot from all the windows.