Triss cried out softly, seeing the girl’s eyes suddenly lighting up with a milky glow, saw her surrounded by a fiery halo. Ciri couldn’t hear her, couldn’t hear anyone. She was still holding the unicorn’s horn in one hand, and pointed the other towards the motionless Witcher. A ribbon of flickering brightness that glowed like lava flowed from her fingers.

No one could tell how long it lasted. Because it was unreal.

Like a dream.

The unicorn, almost blurring in the thickening fog, neighed, struck its hoof, and shook its head and horn, as though pointing at something. Triss looked. She saw a dark shape on the water under the canopy of willow branches hanging over the lake. It was a boat.

The unicorn pointed again with its horn. And quickly began to vanish into the mist.

‘Kelpie,’ said Ciri. ‘Follow him.’

Kelpie snorted. And tossed her head. She followed the unicorn obediently. Her horseshoes rang on the cobbles for a while. Then the sound suddenly broke off. As though the mare had taken wing, disappeared, dematerialised.

The boat was beside the very bank, and in the moments when the fog dispersed Triss could see it clearly. It was a primitively constructed barge, as clumsy and angular as a large pig trough.

‘Help me,’ said Ciri. Her voice was confident and determined.

No one knew at the beginning what the girl meant, what help she was expecting. Dandelion was the first to understand. Perhaps because he knew the legend, had once read one of its poeticized versions. He picked up the still unconscious Yennefer. He was astonished at how dainty and light she was. He could have sworn somebody was helping him carry her. He could have sworn he could feel Cahir’s shoulder beside his arm. Out of the corner of one eye he caught sight of a flash of Milva’s flaxen plait. When he placed the sorceress in the boat he could have sworn he saw Angoulême’s hands steadying the side.

The dwarves carried the Witcher, helped by Triss, who was supporting his head. Yarpen Zigrin positively blinked on seeing both Dahlberg brothers for a second. Zoltan Chivay could have sworn that Caleb Stratton had helped him lay the Witcher in the boat. Triss Merigold was absolutely certain she could smell the perfume of Lytta Neyd, also called Coral. And for a moment she saw amidst the haze the bright, yellow-green eyes of Coën from Kaer Morhen.

That was the kind of tricks played on the senses by the fog, the thick fog over Loch Eskalott.

‘It’s ready, Ciri,’ the sorceress said dully. ‘Your boat is waiting.’

Ciri brushed her hair back from her forehead and sniffed.

‘Apologise to the ladies of Montecalvo, Triss,’ she said. ‘But it can’t be otherwise. I cannot stay when Geralt and Yennefer are departing. I simply cannot. They ought to understand.’

‘They ought to.’