'Triss!' yelled Ciri suddenly, running down the stairs, stamping. 'Can I sleep with you tonight? Triss, please, please say yes! Please, Triss!'

'Your fears were unfounded, entirely ungrounded.' Triss grimaced, resting her elbows on the table. 'The time when wizards used to hunt Sources and magically gifted children, tearing them from their parents or guardians by force or deceit, is long gone. Did you really think I might want to take Ciri away from you?'

Lambert snorted and turned his face away. Eskel and Vesemir looked at Geralt, and Geralt said nothing. He continued to gaze off to the side, playing incessantly with his silver witcher medallion, depicting the head of a snarling wolf. Triss knew the medallion reacted to magic. On such a night as Midinvaerne, when the air itself was vibrating with magic, the witchers' medallions must be practically humming. It must be both irritating and bothersome.

'No, child,' Vesemir finally said. 'We know you would not do such a thing. But we also know that you do, ultimately, have to tell the Chapter about her. We've known for a long time that every wizard, male or female, is burdened with this duty. You don't take talented children from their parents and guardians any more. You observe such children so that later – at the right moment – you can fascinate them in magic, influence them-'

'Have no fear,' she interrupted coldly. 'I will not tell anyone about Ciri. Not even the Chapter. Why are you looking at me like that?'

'We're amazed by the ease with which you pledge to keep this secret,' said Eskel calmly. 'Forgive me, Triss, I do not mean to offend you, but what has happened to your legendary loyalty to the Council and Chapter?'

'A lot has happened. The war changed many things, and the battle for Sodden Hill changed even more. I won't bore you with

the politics, especially as certain issues and affairs are bound by secrets I am not allowed to divulge. But as for loyalty… I am loyal. And believe me, in this matter I can be loyal to both you and to the Chapter.'

'Such double loyalty' – Geralt looked her in the eyes for the first time that evening – 'is devilishly difficult to manage. Rarely does it succeed, Triss.'

The enchantress turned her gaze on Ciri. The girl was sitting on a bearskin with Coen, tucked away in the far corner of the hall, and both were busy playing a hand-slapping game. The game was growing monotonous as both were incredibly quick – neither could manage to slap the other's hand in any way. This, however, clearly neither mattered to them nor spoiled their game.

'Geralt,' she said, 'when you found Ciri, on the Yaruga, you took her with you. You brought her to Kaer Morhen, hid her from the world and do not let even those closest to the child know she is alive. You did this because something – about which I know nothing – convinced you that destiny exists, holds sway over us, and guides us in everything we do. I think the same, and have always done so. If destiny wants Ciri to become a magician, she will become one. Neither the Chapter nor the Council have to know about her, they don't have to observe or encourage her. So in keeping your secret I won't betray the Chapter in any way. But as you know, there is something of a hitch here.'

'Were it only one,' sighed Vesemir. 'Go on, child.'

'The girl has magical abilities, and that can't be neglected. It's too dangerous.'

'In what way?'

'Uncontrolled powers are an ominous thing. For both the Source and those in their vicinity. The Source can threaten those around them in many ways. But they threaten themselves in only one. Mental illness. Usually catatonia.'

'Devil take it,' said Lambert after a long silence. 'I am listening to you half-convinced that someone here has already lost their marbles and will, any moment now, present a threat to the rest of us. Destiny, sources, spells, hocus-pocus… Aren't you exaggerating,

Merigold? Is this the first child to be brought to the Keep? Geralt didn't find destiny; he found another homeless, orphaned child. We'll teach the girl the sword and let her out into the world like the others. True, I admit we've never trained a girl in Kaer Morhen before. We've had some problems with Ciri, made mistakes, and it's a good thing you've pointed them out to us. But don't let us exaggerate. She is not so remarkable as to make us fall on our knees and raise our eyes to the heavens. Is there a lack of female warriors roaming the world? I assure you, Merigold, Ciri will leave here skilful and healthy, strong and able to face life. And, I warrant, without catatonia or any other epilepsy. Unless you delude her into believing she has some such disease.'

'Vesemir,' Triss turned in her chair, 'tell him to keep quiet, he's getting in the way.'

'You think you know it all,' said Lambert calmly, 'but you don't. Not yet. Look.'

He stretched his hand towards the hearth, arranging his fingers together in a strange way. The chimney roared and howled, the flames burst out violently, the glowing embers grew brighter and rained sparks. Geralt, Vesemir and Eskel glanced at Ciri anxiously but the girl paid no attention to the spectacular fireworks.

Triss folded her arms and looked at Lambert defiantly.

'The Sign of Aard,' she stated calmly. 'Did you think to impress me? With the use of the same sign, strengthened through concentration, will-power and a spell, I can blow the logs from the chimney in a moment and blast them so high you will think they are stars.'

'You can,' he agreed. 'But Ciri can't. She can't form the Sign of Aard. Or any other sign. She has tried hundreds of times, to no effect. And you know our Signs require minimal power. Ciri does not even have that. She is an absolutely normal child. She has not the least magical power – she has, in fact, a comprehensive lack of ability. And here you are telling us she's a Source, trying to threaten us

A Source,' she explained coldly, 'has no control over their skills, no command over them. They are a medium, something like a

transmitter. Unknowingly they get in touch with energy, unknowingly they convert it. And when they try to control it, when they strain trying to form the Signs perhaps, nothing comes of it. And nothing will come of it, not just after hundreds of attempts but after thousands. It is one characteristic of a Source. Then, one day, a moment comes when the Source does not exert itself, does not strain, is daydreaming or thinking about cabbage and sausages, playing dice, enjoying themselves in bed with a partner, picking their nose… and suddenly something happens. A house might goes up in flames. Or sometimes, half a town goes up.'