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not concerned with having help. She wanted a closer look at the girl. And to touch her.
The green eyes of the little witcher-girl betrayed no signs of mutation, and the touch of her
little hand did not produce the slight, pleasant tingling sensation so characteristic of witchers.
Although she ran the Killer path with a sword slung across her back, the ashen-haired girl had
not been subjected to the Trial of Grasses or to Changes. Of that, Triss was certain.
'Show me your knee, little one.'
'I'm not little.'
'Sorry. But surely you have a name?'
'I do. I'm . . . Ciri.'
'It's a pleasure. A bit closer if you please, Ciri.'
'It's nothing.'
'I want to see what "nothing" looks like. Ah, that's what I thought. "Nothing" looks
remarkably like torn trousers and skin grazed down to raw flesh. Stand still and don't be
scared.'
'I'm not scared . . . Awww!'
The magician laughed and rubbed her palm, itching from casting the spell, against her hip.
The girl bent over and gazed at her knee.
'Oooh,' she said. 'It doesn't hurt any more! And there's no hole . . . Was that magic?'
'You've guessed it.'
'Are you a witch?'
'Guessed again. Although I prefer to be called an enchantress. To avoid getting it wrong you
can call me by my name, Triss. Just Triss. Come on, Ciri. My horse is waiting at the bottom.
We'll go to Kaer Morhen together.'
'I ought to run.' Ciri shook her head. 'It's not good to stop running because you get milk in
your muscles. Geralt says '
'Geralt is at the keep?'
Ciri frowned, pinched her lips together and shot a glance at the enchantress from beneath her
ashen fringe. Triss chuckled again.
'All right,' she said. 'I won't ask. A secret's a secret, and you're right not to disclose it to
someone you hardly know. Come on. When we get there we'll see who's at the castle and who
isn't. And
don't worry about your muscles I know what to do about lactic acid. Ah, here's my mount.
I'll help you . . .'
She stretched out her hand, but Ciri didn't need any help. She jumped agilely into the saddle,
lightly, almost without taking off. The gelding started, surprised, and stamped, but the girl
quickly took up the reins and reassured it.
'You know how to handle a horse, I see.'
'I can handle anything.'
'Move up towards the pommel.' Triss slipped her foot into the stirrup and caught hold of the
mane. 'Make a bit of room for me. And don't poke my eye out with that sword.'
The gelding, spurred on by her heels, moved off along the stream bed at a walking pace. They
rode across another gully and climbed the rounded mountainside. From there they could see
the ruins of Kaer Morhen huddled against the stone precipices - the partially demolished
trapezium of the defensive wall, the remains of the barbican and gate, the thick, blunt column
of the donjon.
The gelding snorted and jerked its head, crossing what remained of the bridge over the moat.
Triss tugged at the reins. The decaying skulls and skeletons strewn across the river bed made
no impression on her. She had seen them before.
'I don't like this,' the girl suddenly remarked. 'It's not as it should be. The dead should to be
buried in the ground. Under a barrow. Shouldn't they?'
'They should,' the magician agreed calmly. 'I think so, too. But the witchers treat this
graveyard as a . . . reminder.'
'Reminder of what?'
'Kaer Morhen,' Triss said as she guided the horse towards the shattered arcades, 'was
assaulted. There was a bloody battle here in which almost all the witchers died. Only those
who weren't in the keep at the time survived.'
'Who attacked them? And why?'
'I don't know,' she lied. 'It was a terribly long time ago, Ciri. Ask the witchers about it.'
'I have,' grunted the girl. 'But they didn't want to tell me.'
/ can understand that, thought the magician. A child trained to be
a witcher, a girl, at that, who has not undergone the mutations, should not be told such things.
A child like that should not hear about the massacre. A child like that should not be terrified
by the prospect that they too may one day hear words describing it like those which were
screamed by the fanatics who marched on Kaer Morhen long ago. Mutant. Monster. Freak.
Damned by the gods, a creature contrary to nature. No, I do not blame the witchers for not
telling you about it, little Ciri. And I shan't tell you either. I have even more reason to be
silent. Because I am a wizard, and without the aid of wizards those fanatics would never have
conquered the castle. And that hideous lampoon, that widely distributed Monstrum which
stirred the fanatics up and drove them to such wickedness was also, apparently, some wizard's
anonymous work. But I, little Ciri, do not recognise collective responsibility, I do not feel the
need to expiate the events which took place half a century before my birth. And the skeletons
which are meant to serve as an eternal reminder will ultimately rot away completely,
disintegrate into dust and be forgotten, will disappear with the wind which constantly whips
the mountainside . . .
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