Free Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski Page B

indicating Ciri. “I see you have applied yourselves to fulfilling the demands of fate and destiny? But it seems you have muddled the stories, boys. In the fairy-tales I was told, shepherdesses and orphans become princesses. But here, I see, a princess is becoming a witcher. Does that not appear somewhat daring to you?”
    Vesemir glanced at Geralt. The white-haired witcher remained silent, his face perfectly still; he did not react with even the slightest quiver of his eyelids to Vesemir’s unspoken request for support.
    “It’s not what you think.” The old man cleared his throat. “Geralt brought her here last autumn. She has no one apart from— Triss, how can one not believe in destiny when—”
    “What has destiny to do with waving a sword around?”
    “We are teaching her to fence,” Geralt said quietly, turning towards her and looking her straight in the eyes. “What else are we to teach her? We know nothing else. Destiny or no, Kaer Morhen is now her home. At least for a while. Training and swordsmanship amuse her, keep her healthy and fit. They allow her to forget the tragedy she has lived through. This is her home now, Triss. She has no other.”
    “Masses of Cintrians,” the enchantress said, holding his gaze, “fled to Verden after the defeat, to Brugge, Temeria and the Islands of Skellige. Amongst them are magnates, barons, knights. Friends, relations… as well as this girl’s subjects.”
    “Friends and relations did not look for her after the war. They did not find her.”
    “Because she was not destined for them?” She smiled at him, not very sincerely but very prettily. As prettily as she could. She did not want him to use that tone of voice.
    The witcher shrugged. Triss, knowing him a little, immediately changed tactics and gave up the argument.
    She looked at Ciri again. The girl, agilely stepping along the balance beam, executed a half-turn, cut lightly, and immediately leaped away. The dummy, struck, swayed on its rope.
    “Well, at last!” shouted Lambert. “You’ve finally got it! Go back and do it again. I want to make sure it wasn’t a fluke!”
    “The sword,” Triss turned to the witchers, “looks sharp. The beam looks slippery and unstable. And Lambert looks like an idiot, demoralising the girl with all his shouting. Aren’t you afraid of an unfortunate accident? Or maybe you’re relying on destiny to protect the child against it?”
    “Ciri practised for nearly six months without a sword,” said Coën. “She knows how to move. And we are keeping an eye on her because—”
    “Because this is her home,” finished Geralt quietly but firmly. Very firmly. Using a tone which put an end to the discussion.
    “Exactly. It is.” Vesemir took a deep breath. “Triss, you must be tired. And hungry?”
    “I cannot deny it,” she sighed, giving up on trying to catch Geralt’s eye. “To be honest, I’m on my last legs. I spent last night on the Trail in a shepherd’s hut which was practically falling apart, buried in straw and sawdust. I used spells to insulate the shack; if it weren’t for that I would probably be dead. I long for clean linen.”
    “You will have supper with us now. And then you will sleep as long as you wish, and rest. We have prepared the best room for you, the one in the tower. And we have put the best bed we could find in Kaer Morhen there.”
    “Thank you.” Triss smiled faintly. In the tower, she thought. All right, Vesemir. Let it be the tower for today, if appearances matter so much to you. I can sleep in the tower in the best of all the beds in Kaer Morhen. Although I would prefer to sleep with Geralt in the worst.
    “Let’s go, Triss.”
    “Let’s go.”
    *    *    *
    The wind hammered against the shutters and ruffled the remains of the moth-eaten tapestries which had been used to insulate the window. Triss lay in perfect darkness in the best bed in the whole of Kaer Morhen. She couldn’t sleep – and not because the best bed