'I knew you wouldn't understand.'

'Indeed, I don't. I never will. But I do know what it's about. Your great causes, your wars, your struggle to save the world… Your end which justifies the means… Prick up your ears, Philippa. Can you hear those voices, that yowling? Those are cats fighting for a great cause. For indivisible mastery over a heap of rubbish. It's no joking matter – blood is being spilled and clumps of fur are flying. It's war. But I care incredibly little about either of these wars, the cats' or yours.'

'That's only what you imagine,' hissed the magician. 'All this is going to start concerning you – and sooner than you think. You're standing before necessity and choice. You've got yourself mixed up in destiny, my dear, far more than you've bargained for. You thought you were taking a child, a little girl, into your care. You were wrong. You've taken in a flame which could at any moment set the world alight. Our world. Yours, mine, that of the others. And you will have to choose. Like I did. Like Triss Merigold. Choose, as your Yennefer had to. Because Yennefer has already

chosen. Your destiny is in her hands, witcher. You placed it in those hands yourself.'

The witcher staggered. Shani yelled and tore herself away from Dandilion. Geralt held her back with a gesture, stood upright and looked straight into the dark eyes of Philippa Eilhart.

'My destiny,' he said with effort. 'My choice *.. I'll tell you, Philippa, what I've chosen. I won't allow you to involve Ciri in your dirty machinations. I am warning you. Whoever dares harm Ciri will end up like those four lying there. I won't swear an oath. I have nothing by which to swear. I simply warn you. You accused me of being a bad guardian, that I don't know how to protect the child. I will protect her. As best I can. I will kill. I will kill mercilessly…'

'I believe you,' said the magician with a smile. 'I believe you will. But not today, Geralt. Not now. Because in a minute you're going to faint from loss of blood. Shani, are you ready?'

No one is bom a wizard. We still know too little about genetics and the mechanisms of heredity. We sacrifice too little time and means on research. Unfortunately, we constantly try to pass on inherited magical abilities in, so to say, a natural way. Results of these pseudo-experiments can be seen all too often in town gutters and within temple walls. We see too many of them, and too frequently come across morons and women in a catatonic state, dribbling seers who soil themselves, seeresses, village oracles and miracle-workers, cretins whose minds are degenerate due to the inherited, uncontrolled Force.

These morons and cretins can also have offspring, can pass on abilities and thus degenerate further. Is anyone in a position to foresee or describe how the last link in such a chain will look?

'I'm going to tell you something,' said Iola the Second suddenly, resting the basket of grain on her hip. 'There's going to be a war. That's what the duke's greeve who came to fetch the cheeses said.'

'A war?' Ciri shoved her hair back from her forehead. 'With who? Nilfgaard?'

'I didn't hear,' the novice admitted. 'But the greeve said our duke had received orders from King Foltest himself. He's sending out a call to arms and all the roads are swarming with soldiers. Oh dear! What's going to happen?'

'If there's going to be a war,' said Eurneid, 'then it'll most certainly be with Nilfgaard. Who else? Again! Oh gods, that's terrible!'

'Aren't you exaggerating a bit with this war, Iola?' Ciri scattered some grains for the chickens and guinea-hens crowding around them in a busy, noisy whirl. 'Maybe it's only another raid on the Scoia'tael?'

'Mother Nenneke asked the greeve the same thing,' declared Iola the Second. 'And the greeve said that no, this time it wasn't about the Squirrels. Castles and citadels have apparently been ordered to store supplies in case of a siege. But elves attack in forests, they don't lay siege to castles! The greeve asked whether the Temple could give more cheese and other things. For the castle stores. And he demanded goose feathers. They need a lot of goose feathers, he said. For arrows. To shoot from bows, understand? Oh, gods! We're going to have masses of work! You'll see! We'll be up to our ears in work!'

'Not all of us,' said Eurneid scathingly. 'Some aren't going to get their little hands dirty. Some of us only work two days a week. They don't have any time for work because they are, apparently,

studying witchery. But in actual fact they're probably only idling or skipping around the park thrashing weeds with a stick. You know who I'm talking about, Ciri, don't you?'

'Ciri will leave for the war no doubt,' giggled Iola the Second. 'After all, she is apparently the daughter of a knight! And herself a great warrior with a terrible sword! At last she'll be able to cut real heads off instead of nettles!'

'No, she is a powerful wizard!' Eurneid wrinkled her little nose. 'She's going to change all our enemies into field mice. Ciri! Show us some amazing magic. Make yourself invisible or make the carrots ripen quicker. Or do something so that the chickens can feed themselves. Well, go on, don't make us ask! Cast a spell!'

'Magic isn't for show,' said Ciri angrily. 'Magic is not some street market trick.'

'But of course, of course,' laughed the novice. 'Not for show. Eh, Iola? It's exactly as if I were hearing that hag Yennefer talk!'

'Ciri is getting more and more like her,' appraised Iola, sniffing ostentatiously. 'She even smells like her. Huh, no doubt some magical scent made of mandrake or ambergris. Do you use magical scents, Ciri?'

'No! I use soap! Something you rarely use!'

'Oh ho.' Eurneid twisted her lips. 'What sarcasm, what spite! And what airs!'

'She never used to be like this,' Iola the Second puffed up. 'She became like this when she started spending time with that witch. She sleeps with her, eats with her, doesn't leave her side. She's practically stopped attending lessons at the Temple and no longer has a moment to spare for us!'

'And we have to do all the work for her! Both in the kitchen and in the garden! Look at her little hands, Iola! Like a princess!'

'That's the way it is!' squeaked Ciri. 'Some have brains, so they get a book! Others are feather-brained, so they get a broom!'

'And you only use a broom for flying, don't you? Pathetic wizard!'

'You're stupid!'

'Stupid yourself!'

'No, I'm not!'

'Yes, you are! Come on, Iola, don't pay any attention to her. Sorceresses are not our sort of company.'

'Of course they aren't!' yelled Ciri and threw the basket of grain on the ground. 'Chickens are your sort of company!'

The novices turned up their noses and left, passing through the hoard of cackling fowl.

Ciri cursed loudly, repeating a favourite saying of Vesemir's which she did not entirely understand. Then she added a few words she had heard Yarpen Zigrin use, the meanings of which were a total mystery to her. With a kick, she dispersed the chickens swarming towards the scattered grain, picked up the basket, turned it upside down, then twirled in a witcher's pirouette and threw the basket like a discus over the reed roof of the henhouse. She turned on her heel and set off through the Temple park at a run.