Almost the entire archipelago could be seen from the upper terraces of Kaer Trolde citadel, Ard Skellig’s main stronghold. Directly ahead, beyond the strait, lay An Skellig, its southern part low and flat, its hidden northern side precipitous and scored by fjords. Far away to the left, tall, green, mountainous Spikeroog, its peaks shrouded in cloud, broke up the waves with the sharp fangs of its reefs. To the right Undvik island’s steep cliffs could be seen, teeming with gulls, petrels, cormorants and gannets. From behind Undvik emerged the forested cone of Hindarsfjall, the archipelago’s smallest island. If, though, you were to climb to the very top of one of Kaer Trolde’s towers and look southwards, you would see the solitary island of Faroe far from the others, jutting from the water like the back of a huge fish washed up at low tide.

Yennefer went down to the lower terrace, stopping by a group of women whose pride and social status prevented them from rushing pell-mell to the quayside to jostle with the excited rabble. Down below, beneath them, lay the harbour town, black and shapeless like some great marine crustacean spat out by the waves.

Longship after longship sailed out of the strait between An Skellig and Spikeroog. Their sails blazed white and red in the sun and brass bosses shone on the shields suspended from their sides.

‘Ringhorn is coming first,’ said one of the women. ‘Followed by Fenris…’

‘Trigla,’ an excited speaker caught sight of another. ‘Drac follows… Havfrue’s behind them…’

‘Anghira… Tamara… Daria… No, it’s Scorpena… Daria’s not there. Daria’s not there…’

A young, heavily pregnant woman with a thick, fair plait, cradling her belly, groaned softly, paled and fainted, collapsing on the flags of the terrace like a curtain torn from its rings. Yennefer leaped forward at once, dropping to one knee, placed her fingers on the woman’s abdomen and shouted a spell to suppress the spasms and contractions, powerfully and securely binding the placenta–which was in danger of detaching–to the womb. Just to be certain, she cast another soothing and protective spell on the baby, whose kicks she could feel under her palm. She brought the woman around by slapping her face, in order not to waste magical energy.

‘Take her away. Carefully.’

‘Foolish girl…’ said one of the older women. ‘A close thing…’

‘Hysterical… Her Nils may still be alive, he may be on another longship…’

‘Thank you for your help, madam witch.’

‘Take her away,’ Yennefer repeated, getting to her feet. Then she stifled a curse on discovering her dress had burst at the seams when she’d knelt down.