The Lady of the Lake (The Witcher, #5)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

There’s no time to lose. Our only hope is in a quick escape. To the right place, and the right time. We must hurry, Star-Eye. I am the Master of Worlds, she recalled. I am of the Elder Blood, I have power over time and place. I am of Lara Dorren’s blood.

But before she managed to dive into nothingness, a flea, the last of the ones that had crawled all over her in the previous place, that had survived the journey in time and space nestled in a fold of her jacket, leaped a great flea leap onto the wharf.

That same evening the flea settled into the mangy coat of a rat, an old male, the veteran of many rat fights, testified to by one ear chewed off right by its skull. That same evening the flea and the rat embarked on a ship. And the next morning set sail on a voyage. On a barge; old, neglected and very dirty. The barge was called Catriona. That name was to pass into history. But no one knew that then.

“I have too,” said Rusty. “It’s a witcher. A mutant. That would explain why he lived so long… Was he your comrade-at-arms, men? Or did you bring him here by chance?” “He was our comrade, Mr. Medic,” confirmed another volunteer gloomily, a beanpole with a bandaged head. “From our squadron, a volunteer like us. Eh, he was a master with a sword. They called him Coën.” “And he was a witcher?”

And thus the might of Nilfgaard was reduced to dust on the Brenna battlefields, and an end was put to the march of the Empire northwards. Either by being killed or taken captive the Empire lost four and forty thousand men at the Battle of Brenna. The flower of the knighthood and the élite cavalry fell. Leaders of the stature of Menno Coehoorn, Braibant, de Mellis-Stoke, van Lo, Tyrconnel, Eggebracht and others whose names have not survived in our archives, fell, were taken prisoner or disappeared without trace.

I consider that unjust. And if anyone wants to know, I don’t agree with it. Because a story where the decent ones die and the scoundrels live and carry on doing what they want is full of shit. I don’t have any more strength, Emperor. Summon your men.”

The sorceresses, interrupting their furtive gossiping, quickly took their seats. Sheala de Tancarville, in a boa of silver fox, which gave a feminine accent to her severe male outfit. Assire var Anahid, in a dress of mauve silk, which extremely gracefully combined modest simplicity with chic elegance. Francesca Findabair, regal, as usual. Ida Emean aep Sivney, mysterious, as usual. Margarita Laux-Antille, distinguished and serious. Sabrina Glevissig in turquoise. Keira Metz in green and daffodil yellow. And Fringilla Vigo. Dejected. Sad. And pale with a truly deathly, morbid, utterly ghastly paleness. Triss Merigold was sitting beside Keira, opposite Fringilla. A painting depicting a horseman galloping headlong down a road between an avenue of alders hung above the head of the Nilfgaardian sorceress. The alders were holding out their monstrous arm-like boughs towards the rider, sneeringly smiling with the ghastly maws of their hollows. Triss shuddered involuntarily.

Philippa Eilhart used a spell to focus the image and sound. “Ladies, as you can see and hear,” she said, not without a sneer, “the rulers of the world are, at this very moment, getting down to deciding the fate of it in the throne room of Cintra, plumb beneath us, one floor lower. And we, here, one floor above them, will be watching over so that the boys don’t go too wild.”

“Shortly after the end of the negotiations and the signing of the Peace of Cintra—” the pilgrim picked up the story “—a grand holiday, a celebration lasting several days, was

held in Novigrad, the crowning moment of which was a great and ceremonial military parade. The day, as befitted the first day of a new era, was truly beautiful…”

“Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen, you, who were Imperial Coroner, be upstanding. The High Tribunal of the Eternal Empire by grace of the Great Sun has found you guilty of the crimes and illegitimate acts of which you have been charged, namely: treason and participation in a conspiracy intended to bring about a murderous assault on the statutory order of the Empire, and also on the person of the Imperial Majesty. Your guilt, Stefan Skellen, has been confirmed and proven, and the Tribunal has not found extenuating circumstances. His Royal Imperial Majesty has thus not granted you an imperial pardon. “Stefan Skellen, son of Bertram Skellen. You will be taken from the courtroom to the Citadel, from where, when the apposite time comes, you will be led out. As a traitor, unworthy of treading the soil of the Empire, you will be placed on a wooden cart and horses will pull you to Millennium Square on that cart. As a traitor, unworthy of breathing the air of the Empire, you will be hanged by the neck on a gallows by the hand of an executioner, between heaven and earth. And you will hang until you are dead. Your corpse will be cremated and the ashes tossed to the four winds.

trance—drank in the carefully measured words of the storyteller telling of the Witcher and the sorceress. Of the Tower of the Swallow. Of Ciri, the witcher girl with the scar on her face. Of Kelpie, the enchanted black mare. Of the Lady of the Lake. That came later, years later. Many, many years later.

Then the sorceress and the witcher were married and held a grand wedding party. I too was there, I drank mead and wine. And then they lived happily ever after, but for a very short time. He died ordinarily, of a heart attack. She died soon after him, but of what the tale does not say. They say of sorrow and longing, but who would lend credence to fairy tales?

“To the archer Milva!” Zoltan Chivay cleared his throat, saluting with his cup. “To the Nilfgaardian. To Regis the herbalist who entertained the travellers in his cottage with moonshine and mandrake. And to Angoulême, whom I never knew. May the earth lie lightly on them all. May they have in the beyond plenty of whatever they were short of on earth. And may their names live forever in songs and tales. Let’s drink to them.”

And a day will come, perhaps, when we shall stop believing at all that something is lurking in the darkness. We shall laugh at such fears. Call them childish. Be ashamed of them! But darkness will always, always exist. And there will always be Evil in the darkness, always be fangs and claws, death and blood in the darkness. And witchers will always be needed.”

“That’s enough of this discussion!” she snapped. “A little more humility, you arrogant slut! He’s my man, mine and only mine! Do you understand? You’re to stop talking about him, you’re to stop thinking about him, you’re to stop delighting in his noble character… Right away, at once! Oh, I feel like grabbing you by that ginger mop of hair—” “Just you try!” yelled Triss. “Just try, you bitch, and I’ll scratch your eyes out! I—”