‘We know, O mother.’

‘That’s everything. Now come closer to receive my blessing.’

She placed her hands on their heads in turn, embraced and kissed them in turn. Eurneid sniffed, Iola the Second simply burst into tears. Nenneke, although her eyes were shining a little more than usual, snorted.

‘Don’t make a scene,’ she said, seemingly crossly and sharply. ‘You’re going to a normal war. People return from them. Take your things and I bid you goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, O mother.’

They walked briskly towards the temple gate, without looking back. The high priestess Nenneke, the sorceress Triss Merigold and the scribe Jarre watched them go.

Jarre drew attention to himself by grunting intrusively.

‘What’s the matter?’ Nenneke glared at him.

‘You let them!’ the boy exploded bitterly. ‘You allowed them, girls, to sign up! And me? Why am I not allowed? Am I to continue leafing through dusty parchments, here, behind these walls? I’m neither a cripple nor a coward! It’s a disgrace for me to stay in the temple, when even girls—’

‘Those girls,’ the high priestess interrupted, ‘have spent their whole young lives learning to treat and heal illnesses and to care for the sick and wounded. They are going to war not out of patriotism or a hankering after adventure, but because there are countless wounded and sick people there. Piles of work, day and night! Eurneid and Iola, Myrrha, Katje, Prine, Debora and the other girls are the temple’s contribution to this war. The temple, as part of society, is repaying its debt to society. It’s giving the army and the war its contribution: experts and specialists. Do you understand that, Jarre? Specialists! Not arrow fodder!’

‘Everybody’s joining the army! Only cowards are staying at home!’

‘You’re talking nonsense, Jarre,’ Triss said sharply. ‘You don’t understand anything.’

‘I want to go to war…’ the boy’s voice broke. ‘I want to rescue… Ciri…’

‘My, my,’ Nenneke said mockingly. ‘The knight errant wants to ride out to rescue his sweetheart. On a white horse…’

She fell silent under the sorceress’s gaze.

‘In any case; enough of this, Jarre.’ She shot the boy a black look. ‘I said I’m not letting you! Return to your books! Study. Your future is scholarship. Come, Triss. Let’s not waste time.’

A bone comb, a cheap ring, a book with a tattered binding, and a faded light blue sash lay spread out on a cloth before the altar. Iola the First, a priestess with prophetic powers, was kneeling over the objects.

‘Don’t hurry, Iola,’ Nenneke, standing beside her, warned. ‘Start concentrating slowly. We don’t want a dazzling prophecy, we don’t want an enigma with a thousand solutions. We want an image. A distinct image. Take the aura from these objects; they belonged to Ciri, Ciri touched them. Take the aura. Slowly. There’s no hurry.’

Outside, a strong wind howled and a snowstorm whirled. Snow quickly covered the temple’s roofs and courtyard. It was the nineteenth day of November. A full moon.