She rode through the lakeside thicket and urged Kelpie into the lake, deep enough for the water to reach above the mare’s knees. The water was so clear that even from the height of the saddle Ciri could see the colourful mosaic of the bottom, the mussels and the swaying, feathery pond weed in the shadow cast by the horse. She saw a small crayfish striding proudly among the pebbles.

Kelpie whinnied. Ciri jerked the reins and rode into the shallows, but not onto the bank, because it was sandy and covered in rocks, and that ruled out riding fast. She led the mare right to the water’s edge so she could walk on the hard gravel at the bottom. And almost at once urged Kelpie into a trot. She was as fleet as a real trotter, trained not to be ridden but to pull a gig or a landau. But she soon found that trotting was too slow. A kick of Ciri’s heels and a shout urged the mare into a gallop. They raced among splashes of water flying all around, sparkling in the sun like drops of molten silver.

When she saw the tower, she didn’t slow down yet not even the merest snort was audible in Kelpie’s breathing, and her gallop was still light and effortless.

She hurtled into the courtyard at full speed, with a clatter of hooves, and pulled the mare up so suddenly that for a moment Kelpie’s horseshoes slid over the flags with a long-drawn-out grinding sound. She stopped just before the elf-women waiting at the foot of the tower. Right in front of their noses. She felt satisfaction, for two of them, usually unmoving and dispassionate, now stepped back involuntarily.

‘Never fear,’ she snorted. ‘I won’t ride you down! Unless I mean to.’

The elves recovered quickly, their faces once more smoothed by calm, and nonchalant indifference returned to their eyes.

Ciri dismounted, or rather flew from the saddle. There was defiance in her eyes.

‘Bravo,’ said a fair-haired elf with a triangular-shaped face, emerging from the shadow under an arcade. ‘A nice display, Loc’hlaith.’

He had greeted her like that the first time, when she had entered the Tower of the Swallow and found herself among the blooming spring. But that was long ago and things like that had stopped making any impression on her at all.

‘I’m no Lady of the Lake,’ she barked. ‘I’m a prisoner here! And you’re my gaolers! And I may as well speak bluntly! There you go!’ She threw the reins to one of the elves. ‘The horse needs rubbing down. Water her when she cools. And above all she must be looked after!’

The fair-haired elf smiled slightly.

‘Indeed,’ he said, watching the elf-women wordlessly lead the mare to the stable. ‘You’re a wronged prisoner here, and they are your harsh gaolers. It’s quite plain.’