‘All the versions of the legend—’ Condwiramurs pointed to one of the engravings ‘—give Rhys-Rhun castle as the place of the ending, the finale, the conclusive battle between Good and Evil. Armageddon. All of the versions. Aside from one.’

‘Aside from one,’ nodded Nimue. ‘Aside from an anonymous, not very popular version, known as the Black Book of Ellander.’

‘The Black Book states that the ending of the legend played out in Stygga citadel.’

‘Indeed. And the Book of Ellander presents matters that describe the legend in a way that differs significantly from the canon.’

‘I wonder—’ Condwiramurs raised her head ‘—which of those castles is portrayed in the illustrations? Which one is shown on your tapestry? Which likeness is true?’

‘We shall never know. The castle that witnessed the ending of the legend doesn’t exist. It was destroyed. Not a trace of it remains. All the versions agree on that, even the one given by the Book of Ellander. None of the locations given in the sources is convincing. We do not know and shall not know what that castle looked like and where it stood.’

‘But the truth—’

‘But the truth means nothing whatsoever,’ Nimue interrupted sharply. ‘Don’t forget, we don’t know what Ciri really looked like. But look at this figure here, on this piece of parchment drawn on by Wilma Wessely, in a heated conversation with the elf, Avallac’h, against a background of figurines of macabre children. It’s her. Ciri. There isn’t any doubt about it.’

‘But,’ Condwiramurs soldiered on pugnaciously, ‘your tapestry—’

‘Depicts the castle where the legend’s climax was played out.’

There was a long silence. The sheets of parchment rustled as they were turned over.

‘I don’t like the version of the legend from the Black Book,’ Condwiramurs began again. ‘It’s… It’s—’

‘Brutally authentic.’ Nimue finished her novice’s sentence, nodding.

Condwiramurs yawned, put down an edition of Half a Century of Poetry with an afterword by Professor Everett Denhoff Jr. She plumped up her pillow, changing the arrangement for reading to one suitable for sleeping. She yawned, stretched and blew out the lamp. The chamber was plunged into darkness, lit only by needles of moonlight squeezing through chinks in the curtains. What should I choose tonight? wondered the novice, wriggling on the sheets. Take pot luck? Or anchor myself?

After a brief moment she decided on the latter.

It was a vague, repeating dream that she couldn’t see through to the end. It evaporated, vanished among other dreams, like a thread of the weft vanishes and gets lost among the pattern of a coloured fabric. A dream that vanished from her memory, but which in spite of that stubbornly remained in it.

She fell asleep immediately, the dream engulfing her at once. As soon as she closed her eyes.