‘We’ve sent for a physician,’ said the dwarf standing beside Dandelion hoarsely. ‘But he’s taking his time…’

‘It’s too late for a physician,’ said Triss, surprising herself by the calm in her voice. ‘He’s dying.’

Geralt trembled once more, coughed up blood, tensed and went still. Dandelion, supporting Triss, sighed in despair and the dwarf swore. Yennefer groaned. Her face suddenly changed, contorted and grew ugly.

‘There’s nothing more pathetic,’ Ciri said sharply, ‘than a weeping sorceress. You taught me that yourself. But now you’re pathetic, really pathetic, Yennefer. You and your magic, which isn’t fit for anything.’

Yennefer didn’t respond. She was holding Geralt’s limp, paralysed head in both hands and repeating spells, her voice quavering. Pale blue sparks and crackling glimmers danced over her hands and the Witcher’s cheeks and forehead. Triss knew how much energy spells like that used up. She also knew the spells wouldn’t help in any way. She was more than certain that even the spells of expert healers would have been powerless. It was too late. Yennefer’s spells were only exhausting her. Triss was amazed that the black-haired sorceress was holding out so long.

She stopped being amazed, when Yennefer fell silent halfway through the next magical formula and slumped down onto the cobbles beside the Witcher.

One of the dwarves swore again. The other stood with head lowered. Dandelion, still holding Triss up, sniffed.

It suddenly became very cold. The surface of the lake filled with fog like a sorceress’s cauldron, became enveloped in mist. The fog rose swiftly, billowed over the water and rolled onto the land in waves, enveloping everything in a thick, white milk in which sounds grew quieter and died away, in which shapes vanished and forms blurred.

‘And I once renounced my power,’ said Ciri slowly, still kneeling on the blood-soaked cobbles. ‘Had I not renounced it I would have saved him now. I would have healed him, I know it. But it’s too late. I renounced it and now I can’t do anything. It’s as though I’ve killed him.’

The silence was first interrupted by Kelpie’s loud neighing. Then by Dandelion’s muffled cry.

Then they were all struck dumb.

A white unicorn emerged from the fog, running very lightly, ethereally and noiselessly, gracefully raising its shapely head. There actually wasn’t anything unusual in that–everybody knew the legends, and they were unanimous about unicorns running very lightly, ethereally and noiselessly and raising their heads with characteristic grace. If anything was strange it was that the unicorn was running over the surface of the water and the water wasn’t even rippling.

Dandelion groaned, but this time in awe. Triss felt herself being seized by a thrill. By euphoria.

The unicorn clattered its hooves on the stone boulevard. It shook its mane. And neighed lengthily and melodically.

‘Ihuarraquax,’ said Ciri. ‘I’d hoped you’d come.’

The unicorn came closer, neighed again, tapped with a hoof and then struck the cobbles hard. He bent his head. The horn sticking out of his domed forehead suddenly lit up with a bright glare, a brilliance that dispersed the fog for a moment.