'I have to remember that maxim,' the enchantress murmured through her teeth. 'And that it came from Geralt. Not a bad prescription for life although I'm not sure it applies in every situation. But it is easy to put into practise at someone else's expense. So you mustn't give up? Even though you are being thumped and beaten in a thousand ways, you're to get up and carry on practising?'

'Of course. A witcher's not afraid of anything.'

'Is that so? And you, Ciri? You aren't afraid of anything? Answer truthfully.'

The girl turned away and bit her lip.

'You won't tell anybody?'

1 won t.

'I'm frightened of two pendulums. Two at the same time. And the windmill, but only when it's set to go fast. And there's also a long balance, I still have to go on that… with a safety de- A safety device. Lambert says I'm a sissy and a wimp but that's not true. Geralt told me my weight is distributed a little differently because I'm a girl. I've simply got to practise more unless… I wanted to ask you something. May I?'

'You may.'

'If you know magic and spells… If you can cast them… Can you turn me into a boy?'

'No,' Triss replied in an icy tone. 'I can't.'

'Hmm…' The little witcher-girl was clearly troubled. 'But could you at least…'

'At least what?'

'Could you do something so I don't have to…' Ciri blushed. 'I'll whisper it in your ear.'

'Go on.' Triss leaned over. 'I'm listening.'

Ciri, growing even redder, brought her head closer to the enchantress's chestnut hair.

Triss sat up abruptly, her eyes flaming.

'Today? Now?'

'Mhm.'

'Hell and bloody damnation!' the enchantress yelled, and kicked the stool so hard that it hit the door and brought down the rat skin. 'Pox, plague, shit and leprosy! I'm going to kill those cursed idiots!'

'Calm down, Merigold,' said Lambert. 'It's unhealthy to get so worked up, especially with no reason.'

'Don't preach at me! And stop calling me "Merigold"! But best of all, stop talking altogether. I'm not speaking to you. Vesemir, Geralt, have any of you seen how terribly battered this child is? She hasn't got a single healthy spot on her body!'

'Dear child,' said Vesemir gravely, 'don't let yourself get carried away by your emotions. You were brought up differently, you've seen children being brought up in another way. Ciri comes from the south where girls and boys are brought up in the same way, like the elves. She was put on a pony when she was five and when she was eight she was already riding out hunting. She was taught to use a bow, javelin and sword. A bruise is nothing new to Ciri-'

'Don't give me that nonsense,' Triss flared. 'Don't pretend you're stupid. This is not some pony or horse or sleigh ride. This is Kaer Morhen! On these windmills and pendulums of yours, on this Killer path of yours, dozens of boys have broken their bones and twisted their necks, boys who were hard, seasoned vagabonds like you, found on roads and pulled out of gutters. Sinewy scamps and good-for-nothings, pretty experienced despite their short lives. What chance has Ciri got? Even though she's been brought up in the south with elven methods, even growing up under the hand of a battle-axe like Lioness Calanthe, that little one was and still is a princess. Delicate skin, slight build, light bones… She's a girl! What do you want to turn her into? A witcher?'

'That girl,' said Geralt quietly and calmly, 'that petite, delicate princess lived through the Massacre of Cintra. Left entirely to her own devices, she stole past Nilfgaard's cohorts. She successfully fled the marauders who prowled the villages, plundering and murdering anything that still lived. She survived on her own for two weeks in the forests of Transriver, entirely alone. She spent a month roaming with a pack of fugitives, slogging as hard as all the others and starving like all the others. For almost half a year, having been taken in by a peasant family, she worked on the land and with the livestock. Believe me, Triss, life has tried, seasoned and hardened her no less than good-for-nothings like us, who were brought to Kaer Morhen from the highways. Ciri is no weaker than unwanted bastards, like us, who were left with witchers in taverns like kittens in a wicker basket. And her gender? What difference does that make?'

'You still ask? You still dare ask that?' yelled the magician. 'What difference does it make? Only that the girl, not being like you, has her days! And bears them exceptionally badly! And you want her to tear her lungs out on the Killer and some bloody windmills!'

Despite her outrage, Triss felt an exquisite satisfaction at the sight of the sheepish expressions of the young witchers, and Vesemir's jaw suddenly dropping open.

'You didn't even know.' She nodded in what was now a calm, concerned and gentle reproach. 'You're pathetic guardians. She's ashamed to tell you because she was taught not to mention such complaints to men. And she's ashamed of the weakness, the pain and the fact that she is less fit. Has any one of you thought about that? Taken any interest in it? Or tried to guess what might be the matter with her? Maybe her very first bleed happened here, in Kaer Morhen? And she cried to herself at night, unable to find any sympathy, consolation or even understanding from anyone? Has any one of you given it any thought whatsoever?'

'Stop it, Triss,' moaned Geralt quietly. 'That's enough. You've achieved what you wanted. And maybe even more.'

'The devil take it,' cursed Coen. 'We've turned out to be right idiots, there's no two ways about it, eh, Vesemir, and you-

'Silence,' growled the old witcher. 'Not a word.'

It was Eskel's behaviour which was most unlikely; he got up, approached the enchantress, bent down low, took her hand and kissed it respectfully. She swiftly withdrew her hand. Not so as to demonstrate her anger and annoyance but to break the pleasant, piercing vibration triggered by the witcher's touch. Eskel emanated powerfully. More powerfully than Geralt.

'Triss,' he said, rubbing the hideous scar on his cheek with embarrassment, 'help us. We ask you. Help us, Triss.'

The enchantress looked him in the eye and pursed her lips. 'With what? What am I to help you with, Eskel?'

Eskel rubbed his cheek again, looked at Geralt. The white-haired witcher bowed his head, hiding his eyes behind his hand. Vesemir cleared his throat loudly.

At that moment, the door creaked open and Ciri entered the hall. Vesemir's hawking changed into something like a wheeze, a loud indrawn breath. Lambert opened his mouth. Triss suppressed a laugh.

Ciri, her hair cut and styled, was walking towards them with tiny steps, carefully holding up a dark-blue dress – shortened and adjusted, and still showing the signs of having been carried in a saddle-bag. Another present from the enchantress gleamed around the girl's neck – a little black viper made of lacquered leather with a ruby eye and gold clasp.

Ciri stopped in front of Vesemir. Not quite knowing what to do with her hands, she planted her thumbs behind her belt.

'I cannot train today,' she recited in the utter silence, slowly and emphatically, 'for I am… I am…'

She looked at the enchantress. Triss winked at her, smirking like a rascal well pleased with his mischief, and moved her lips to prompt the memorised lines.

'Indisposed!' ended Ciri loudly and proudly, turning her nose up almost to the ceiling.

Vesemir hawked again. But Eskel, dear Eskel, kept his head and once more behaved as was fitting.

'Of course,' he said casually, smiling. 'We understand and clearly we will postpone your exercises until your indisposition has passed. We will also cut the theory short and, if you feel unwell, we will put it aside for the time being, too. If you need any medication or-'

'I'll take care of that,' Triss cut in just as casually.