'Please try to.'

'I really don't remember my papa…" she said in a quiet voice, succumbing to the command. 'Except… Practically nothing. My mama… My mama, I do. She had long hair, like this… And she was always sad… I remember… No, I don't remember anything…'

'Try to remember, please.'

'I can't!'

'Look at my star.'

Seagulls screamed, diving down between the fishing boats where they caught scourings and tiny fish emptied from the crates. The wind gently fluttered the lowered sails of the drakkars, and smoke, quelled by drizzle, floated above the landing-stage. Triremes from Cintra were sailing into the port, golden lions glistening on blue flags. Uncle Crach, who was standing next to her with his hand -as large as the paw of a grizzly bear – on her shoulder, suddenly fell to one knee. Warriors, standing in rows, rhythmically struck their shields with their swords.

Along the gang-plank towards them came Queen Calanthe. Her grandmother. She who was officially called Ard Rhena, the Highest Queen, on the Isles of Skellige. But Uncle Crach an Craite, the Earl of Skellige, still kneeling with bowed head, greeted the Lioness of Cintra with a title which was less official but considered by the islanders to be more venerable.

'Hail, Modron.'

'Princess,' said Calanthe in a cold and authoritative voice, without so much as a glance at the earl, 'come here. Come here to me, Ciri.'

Her grandmother's hand was as strong and hard as a man's, her rings cold as ice.

'Where is Eist?'

'The King…' stammered Crach. 'Is at sea, Modron. He is looking for the remains… And the bodies. Since yesterday…'

'Why did he let them?' shouted the queen. 'How could he allow it? How could you allow it, Crach? You're the Earl of Skellige! No drakkar is allowed to go out to sea without your permission! Why did you allow it, Crach?'

Uncle Crach bowed his head even lower.

'Horses!' said Calanthe. 'We're going to the fort. And tomorrow, at dawn, I am setting sail. I am taking the princess to Cintra. I will never allow her to return here. And you… You have a huge debt to repay me, Crach. One day I will demand repayment.'

'I know, Modron.'

'If I do not claim it, she will do so.' Calanthe looked at Ciri. 'You will repay the debt to her, Earl. You know how.'

Crach an Craite got to his feet, straightened himself and the features of his weatherbeaten face hardened. With a swift move, he drew from its sheath a simple, steel sword devoid of ornaments and pulled up the sleeve his left arm, marked with thickened white scars.

'Without the dramatic gestures,' snorted the queen. 'Save your blood. I said: one day. Remember!'

'Aen me Glaeddyv, zvaere a'Bloedgeas, Ard Rhena, Lionors aep Xintra!' Crach an Craite, the Earl of the Isles of Skellige, raised his arms and shook his sword. The warriors roared hoarsely and beat their weapons against their shields.

'I accept your oath. Lead the way to the fort, Earl.'

Ciri remembered King Eist's return, his stony, pale face. And the queen's silence. She remembered the gloomy, horrible feast at which the wild, bearded sea wolves of Skellige slowly got drunk in terrifying silence. She remembered the whispers. 'Geas Muire… Geas Muire!'

She remembered the trickles of dark beer poured onto the floor, the horns smashed against the stone walls of the hall in bursts of desperate, helpless, senseless anger. 'Geas Muire! Pavetta!'

Pavetta, the Princess of Cintra, and her husband, Prince Duny.

Ciri's parents. Perished. Killed. Geas Muire, the Curse of the Sea, had killed them. They had been swallowed up by a tempest which no one had foreseen. A tempest which should not have broken out…

Ciri turned her head away so that Yennefer would not see the tears swelling in her eyes. Why all this, she thought. Why these questions, these recollections? There's no returning to the past. There's no one there for me any more. Not my papa, nor my mama, nor my grandmother, the one who was Ard Rhena, the Lioness of Cintra. Uncle Crach an Craite, no doubt, is also dead. I haven't got anybody any more and am someone else. There's no returning…

The magician remained silent, lost in thought.

'Is that when your dreams began?' she asked suddenly.

'No,' Ciri reflected. 'No, not then. Not until later.'

'When?'

The girl wrinkled her nose.

'In the summer… The one before… Because the following summer there was the war already…'

'Aha. That means the dreams started after you met Geralt in Brokilon?'

She nodded. I'm not going to answer the next question, she decided. But Yennefer did not ask anything. She quickly got to her feet and looked at the sun.

'Well, that's enough of this sitting around, my ugly one. It's getting late. Let's carry on looking. Keep your hand held loosely in front of you, and don't tense your fingers. Forward.'

'Where am I to go? Which direction?'

'It's all the same.'

'The veins are everywhere?'

'Almost. You're going to learn how to discover them, to find them in the open and recognise such spots. They are marked by trees which have dried up, gnarled plants, places avoided by all animals. Except cats.'

'Cats?'

'Cats like sleeping and resting on intersections. There are many stories about magical animals but really, apart from the dragon,

the cat is the only creature which can absorb the force. No one knows why a cat absorbs it and what it does with it… What's the matter?'

'Oooo… There, in that direction! I think there's something there! Behind that tree!'

'Ciri, don't fantasise. Intersections can only be sensed by standing over them… Hmmm… Interesting. Extraordinary, I'd say. Do you really feel the pull?'

'Really!'

'Let's go then. Interesting, interesting… Well, locate it. Show me where.'

'Here! On this spot!'

Well done. Excellent. So you feel delicate cramps in your ring finger? See how it bends downwards? Remember, that's the sign.'

'May I draw on it?'

Wait, I'll check.'

'Lady Yennefer? How does it work with this drawing of the force? If I gather force into myself then there might not be enough left down below. Is it right to do that? Mother Nenneke taught us that we mustn't take anything just like that, for the fun of it. Even the cherry has to be left on its tree for the birds, so that it can simply fall.'

Yennefer put her arm around Ciri, kissed her gently on the hair at her temple.

'I wish,' she muttered, 'others could hear what you said. Vil-gefortz, Francesca, Terranova… Those who believe they have exclusive right to the force and can use it unreservedly. I wish they could listen to the little wise ugly one from Melitele's Temple. Don't worry, Ciri. It's a good thing you're thinking about it but believe me, there is enough force. It won't run out. It's as if you picked one single little cherry from a huge orchard.

'Can I draw on it now?'

'Wait. Oh, it's a devilishly strong pocket. It's pulsating violently. Be careful, ugly one. Draw on it carefully and very, very slowly.

'I'm not frightened! Pah-pah! I'm a witcher. Ha! I feel it! I feel… Ooouuuch! Lady… Ye… nnnne… feeeeer…'

'Damn it! I warned you! I told you! Head up! Up, I say! Take this and put it to your nose or you'll be covered in blood! Calmly, calmly, little one, just don't faint. I'm beside you. I'm beside you… daughter. Hold the handkerchief. I'll just conjure up some ice…'

There was a great fuss about that small amount of blood. Yennefer and Nenneke did not talk to each other for a week.

For a week, Ciri lazed around, read books and got bored because the magician had put her studies on hold. The girl did not see her for entire days – Yennefer disappeared somewhere at dawn, returned in the evening, looked at her strangely and was oddly taciturn.

After a week, Ciri had had enough. In the evening, when the enchantress returned, she went up to her without a word and hugged her hard.