Blood of Elves (The Witcher, #1)

by Andrzej Sapkowski

Ciri sighed with admiration. Triss smiled, pleased by the effect she’d had. Beautiful, long, loose hair was a rarity, an indication of a woman’s position, her status, the sign of a free woman, a woman who belonged to herself. The sign of an unusual woman—because “normal” maidens wore their hair in plaits, “normal” married women hid theirs beneath a caul or a coif. Women of high birth, including queens, curled their hair and styled it. Warriors cut it short. Only druids and magicians—and whores—wore their hair naturally so as to emphasise their independence and freedom.

“Hmm … And are you—? Who’s the best fencer in the world?” “I’ve no idea.” “You’ve never known one?” “I’ve known many who believed themselves to be the best.” “Oh! What were they? What were their names? What could they do?” “Hold on, hold on, girl. I haven’t got an answer to those questions. Is it all that important?” “Of course it’s important! I’d like to know who these fencers are. And where they are.” “Where they are? I know that.” “Ah! So where?” “In cemeteries.”

Shani smiled even more beautifully and Dandelion was once more filled with the desire to finally compose a ballad about girls like her—not too pretty but nonetheless beautiful, girls of whom one dreams at night when those of classical beauty are forgotten after five minutes.