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More enlightened or better informed people, however, linked the turmoil of the heavens with the evil witch Yennefer, and her dreadful death.
what
“I am death,” she began again, in a strange-sounding voice. “Everyone who encounters me dies.”
About how she finally found help, friendship—and love—with those among whom she should have sought neither help nor friendship. Not to mention love.
it is better to go forward without an aim than loiter without an aim, and with surety much better than to retreat without an aim.
The law means safe paths and highways. It means backstreets one can walk along even after sundown. It means inns and taverns one can leave to visit the privy, leaving one’s purse on the table and one’s wife beside it. The law is the sleep of people certain they’ll be woken by the crowing of the rooster and not the crashing of burning roof timbers! And for those who break the law: the noose, the axe, the stake and the red-hot iron! Punishments which deter others.
“You will. Only to lose her at once. And to be clear: forever; irrevocably. Before it comes to that, you will lose everybody who accompanies you. You will lose one of your companions in the next few weeks, perhaps even days. Perhaps even hours.”
No, I’m not a witcher now. So I’ll have to learn to manage without my medallion.”
“It’s easier to stab a king than a spy. They won’t get me. They’ll never get me.”
I’m ninety-four years old.
The horn of Hemdall sounds as he stands facing his enemies on the rainbow-coloured arch of Bifrost.
“Pavetta,” Crach interrupted, still deep in thought, “did not perish during a storm. The storm began after her death. The sea reacted as it always does to the death of one of the Cintran bloodline. I’ve investigated that matter long enough. And am certain of what I know.”
Do you know, Ciri, what university studies give a person?” “No. What?” “The ability to make use of sources.”
“Winter’s coming.”
“I’m Ciri of Kaer Morhen. I’m a witcher! I’ve come here to kill you.”
“Whoever meets you,” the beggar mumbled, “will not avoid death… For you yourself are death.”
Who, if not a demon, travels in winter? Or asks the way to enchanted ruins?
They heard the grinding of the skates at the last moment. The girl approached at extraordinary speed, literally a blur. She skated up at the very edge of the floe, speeding along right beside the brink. Rience screamed. And choked on the viscous, leaden water. And vanished. There was blood on the ice, on the perfectly even tracks left by the skates. And fingers. Eight fingers. Boreas Mun vomited on the ice.
Rience, naturally, could not answer.
