The hail was still falling, hammering down, covering the square in a thick layer of icy balls gleaming like diamonds. But now the hail was lighter and more patchy, Yennefer could tell from the change in the thudding on the magical shield. And then it stopped. All at once. All of a sudden. Armed men rushed into the square, iron-shod hooves crunched on the ice. The mob roared and fled, whipped by knouts, struck by spear shafts and the flats of swords.

‘Bravo, Triss,’ Yennefer croaked. ‘I don’t know what that was… But you did a nice job.’

‘There was something worth defending,’ croaked Triss Merigold. The heroine of the hill.

‘There always is. Let’s run, Triss. Because it probably isn’t over yet.’

It was over. The hail that the sorceresses had unleashed on the town cooled down hot heads. Enough for the army to dare to strike and bring order. The soldiers had been afraid before. They knew what they were risking with an attack on the enraged mob, on a rabble drunk on blood and killing that feared nothing and would retreat before nothing. But the explosion of the elements had brought the cruel, many-headed beast under control and a charge by the army accomplished the rest.

The hailstones had caused awful havoc in the town. And a man who a moment earlier had beaten a dwarf woman to death with a swingletree and shattered her child’s head against a wall was now sobbing, was now weeping, was now swallowing back tears and snot, looking at what was left of the roof of his house.

Peace reigned in Rivia. Were it not for the almost two hundred mutilated corpses and a dozen burned down homesteads, one might think nothing had happened. In the district of Elm, on Loch Eskalott, over which the gorgeous arc of a rainbow was shining, weeping willows were reflected beautifully in the smooth, mirror-like water, birds had resumed their singing and it smelt of wet foliage. Everything looked pastoral. Even the Witcher, lying in a pool of blood with Ciri kneeling over him.

Geralt was unconscious and as white as a sheet. He lay motionless, but when they stood over him he began to cough, wheeze and spit blood. He began to shake and tremble so hard Ciri couldn’t stop him. Yennefer kneeled down beside her. Triss saw that her hands were shaking. She herself suddenly felt as weak as a kitten, and everything went black. Someone held her up, stopped her from falling. She recognised Dandelion.

‘It’s not working at all.’ She heard Ciri’s voice emanating despair. ‘Your magic isn’t healing him at all, Yennefer.’

‘We arrived…’ Yennefer had difficulty moving her lips. ‘We arrived too late.’

‘Your magic’s not working,’ Ciri repeated, as though she hadn’t heard her. ‘What’s it worth then, your confounded magic?’

You’re right, Ciri, thought Triss, feeling a lump in her throat. We know how to cause a hailstorm, but we can’t drive death away. Although the latter would seem to be easier.