The Tower of the Swallow by Andrzej Sapkowski
‘I know, and I do not count on it. I'm not going to Novigrad, Earl, because I rush to the aid of a person who urgently needs me. A person whom I have sworn to never leave alone and unaided. And you, Crach an Craite, Earl of Skellige, will help with my endeavor. After all, you've made a similar vow. Ten years ago. To the same person. Ciri, the granddaughter of Calanthe. The lion cub of Cintra. I, Yennefer of Vengerberg, care for Ciri as my daughter. That is why I am asking, on her behalf, that you keep your oath. The oath of Crach an Craite, Earl of Skellige.’
‘Really?’ Crach an Craite asked in amazement. ‘You're not even going to try them? Not one of these tasty morsels?’
‘Really.’
The Earl did not insist as he helped himself to a lobster from a shallow bowl, put it on the table, and struck it with a powerful but unerringly precise blow that cleaved the length of it. After he had poured plenty of lemon juice and garlic over it, he began to pick the meat out of the shell. With his fingers.
Yennefer ate in a mannered fashion, with a silver knife and a fork – but she ate a mutton chop, which had surprised and probably offended the chef who had specially prepared the meal for them. For the sorceress wanted neither oysters nor mussels, or the au-jus marinated salmon, or the soup of Trigla and cockles, or the steamed tail of angler fish, or even the baked swordfish, braised eel, octopus, crab, lobster, or seaurchins. And also – especially – no fresh algae.
Anything that even remotely smelled of the sea reminded her of Fringilla Vigo and Philippa Eilhart – of the insanely risky teleportation, the fall in the waves, and the swallowed sea water. The way the algae floated in the bowl also reminded her of something. Of the algae that had been beaten to a pulp on her head and shoulders by the crippling painful blows of pine oars.
‘So I,’ Crach took up the conversation again, as he sucked the flesh from the broken leg joints of the lobster, ‘have decided to trust you, Yennefer. You should know I do not do this for your sake. The Bloedgeas, the blood oath that I gave in front of Calanthe, practically binds my hands. So if you plan to help Ciri, genuinely and honestly – which I assume is true – it seems to me that I have no choice but to help you in this endeavor...’
‘Thank you. But please spare me that pathetic tone. I repeat: I did not participate in the conspiracy on Thanedd. Trust me.’
He waved his hand. ‘Is it so important what I think? You would do better to start with the kings and their agents around the world, like Dijkstra. Then Philippa Eilhart and the loyal magicians. Who, as you yourself have admitted, you already faced and as a result have fled here to Skellige. You must have presented the evidence you had...’
‘I have no evidence,’ she interrupted him and angrily poked her fork in the sprouts, which the cook had added to the insulting lamb chops. ‘And if I did, I would not present it. I can’t explain what binds me to silence. But believe me, Crach. I beg you.’
‘I told you...’
‘You did’, she cut him off. ‘You told me you would help me. Thank you. But you still do not believe in my innocence. Believe it.’
Crach eyed the last morsels in the lobster shell and then moved on to the bowl of mussels. He poked and rattled around inside the bowl, searching for the largest.
‘Agreed,’ he said finally, wiping his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I believe it. Because I want to believe it. But asylum and refuge, I will not grant you. I cannot. You can leave the Skellige Islands whenever and to wherever you want. I would recommend hurrying. You are here, as we say ‘on the wings of magic’. Others may arrive on your trail. They also know the spells.’
‘I do not seek asylum or safe haven, Earl. I search. I must hurry to help Ciri.’
‘Ciri,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘The lion cub... She was a strange child.’
‘Was?’
‘Oh.’ Again he waved his hand. ‘I spoke poorly. ‘Was’ because she is no longer a child. I did not mean to upset you. Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra... She spent a summer and a winter in Skellige. More than once she caused chaos – but hey! That was an imp, not a lion cub... Damn, I already said... Yennefer, various rumors have reached us from the mainland... Some say that Ciri is in Nilfgaard...’
‘She's not in Nilfgaard.’
‘Others say that the girl is no more.’
Yennefer remained silent, biting her lip.
‘But with this second rumor’, the Earl said firmly, ‘I disagree. Ciri lives. I'm sure of it. There has been no proof whatsoever... She is alive!’
Yennefer raised her eyebrows, but asked no questions. For a long time they were silent, listening to the roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs of Ard Skellig.
‘Yennefer,’ Crach said after a while. ‘There are other messages that have come from the continent. I understand that your witcher, who stayed in Brokilon after the fight on Thanedd, has set out from there to reach Nilfgaard and liberate Ciri.’
‘I repeat, Ciri is not in Nilfgaard. And what my witcher, as you call him, intends to do, I do not know. But he... Crach, it's no secret that he and I... that I am sympathetic to him. But I know he will not save Ciri. He will achieve nothing. I know him. He’ll get caught up, lost in his own philosophizing, and wallow in self pity. He’ll vent his anger and hack at anyone and anything he comes across. Then, in expiation, he’ll do some grand, but pointless deed. In the end, he’ll be slain, stupidly and needlessly, most likely by a stab in the back.’
‘It is said’, Crach threw in quickly, frightened by the ominous changes and strange trembling voice of the sorceress, ‘that Ciri is his destiny. I've seen it myself, back in Cintra, at Pavetta’s betrothal...’
‘Predestination,’ Yennefer sharply interrupted him, ‘can be interpreted in different ways. Very different ways. However, time is too precious for such discussions. I repeat, I do not know what he's up to and whether Geralt intends anything. I accept that. In my own way. And act, Crach, act. I do not care to sit here, crying and holding my head in my hands. I will act!’
The Earl raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
‘I will act’, repeated the sorceress. ‘I've been thinking of a plan. And you, Crach, will help me, true to the oath that you have taken.’
‘I'm ready,’ he announced firmly. ‘Right now. The dragon boats are in the harbor. Command, Yennefer.’
She could not resist bursting into laughter.
‘Still the old man. No, Crach, no proof of courage and manliness is required. There will be no need to go to Nilfgaard and hew the golden door latch of their cities with an axe. I need less spectacular help. But more concrete... How are things with your treasury?’
‘What?’
‘Earl Crach an Craite. The help I need can be converted into currency.’
It started the next day, when it was light. In the rooms that had been made available to Yennefer a mad hustle dominated and Seneschal Guthlaf accommodated the sorceress only with great difficulty.
Yennefer sat at a table and barely looked up from her papers. She counted and summed columns of presented invoices, which had been hurried from the Treasury and the island's branch of the Cianfanelli Bank. She sketched and drew, and the drawings and designs were immediately handed over to the artisans – alchemists, goldsmiths, glass blowers, and jewelers.
For a while everything went smoothly, then the trouble started.
‘I'm sorry, Lady Sorceress,’ said Seneschal Guthlaf. ‘What is not is not. We have given you all that we had. You might be able to accomplish miracles and magic, but not us! Now, I'd like to note that the diamonds laid out before are worth a total value of...’
‘What good is their value to me?’ She hissed. ‘I have need of a diamond, but it must be big. How so, Master?’
The jeweler looked again at the drawing. ‘To do such and to cut such facets? At least thirty carats.’
‘Such a stone’, Guthlaf stated categorically, ‘does not exist on Skellige.’
‘That's not true,’ disagreed the jeweler. ‘There is one.’
‘How do you
imagine that I do that, Yennefer?’ Crach an Craite frowned. ‘Shall I send out soldiers to take this temple by storm and plunder? Should I threaten the priestesses with my wrath if they do not give up the diamond? This is not an option. I'm not particularly religious, but a temple is a temple and priests are priests. I can only ask politely. I can specify how much it means to me and how big my gratitude will be. But it will always be only a request. A modest, humble request.’
‘A request may be granted?’
‘Yes. An attempt will do no harm. What is there to lose? We two will travel to Hindarsfjall and recite this request. I will let the priestesses understand that I am keen. And then it's up to you. Negotiate. Argue. Try bribery. Appeal to the ambition. Appeal to your common professions. Cry despairingly, twist into convulsions, excite pity... In all, act like a monkfish. Shall I give lessons, Yennefer?’
‘There is no use, Crach. A sorceress will never find a common ground with a priestess. Both are too certain about... ideological differences. And to allow a sorceress to use a ‘holy' relic or artifact... No, forget it. There is no chance...’
‘What do you need with this diamond anyway?’
‘To build a ‘window' for telecommunications. That is, a megascope. I have to convince a couple of people to agree with me.’
‘Magic? Over long distance?’
‘If it would be sufficient to climb the highest tower of Kaer Trolde and shout out loud, I would not bother you.’
The gulls and petrels screamed as they circled over the water. On the steep rocks and reefs of Hindarsfjall, the penetrating chirps of nesting Red-billed Oystercatchers mixed with the hoarse croaking and chattering of Yellow-Headed Booby's. A black Sea Cormorant with her bonnet observed the approaching ship with sparkling green eyes.
‘That huge rock towering over the water’ – explained Crach an Craite as he leaned on the railing – ‘is Kaer Hemdall, the guardian Hemdall who shall be awakened. Hemdall is our mythical hero. According to legend, when Tedd Deireádh comes – the time of the end, the time of the white cold and storms of the wolf, Hemdall will awaken to battle the evil powers of the land of Mörhogg – the specters, demons and phantoms of chaos. He will stand upon a rainbow bridge and blow his horn as a sign that it is time to take up arms and march. To Ragh Nar Roog, the last battle, which will decide whether the night falls down or the morning comes.’
The ship danced through the waves and slipped into the calmer waters of a bay between the guardian Hemdall's rock and another, just as fantastically shaped.
‘The smaller rock is Kambi,’ said the Earl. ‘Kambi, in our myths, is a golden rooster that crows to awaken Hemdall and warn him that Naglfar is approaching, the infernal dragon ship that carries the army of Chaos – the demons and specters from Mörhogg. Naglfar is built from the fingernails of the dead. You wouldn't believe it Yennefer, but there are still people on the Skellige Islands who cut off dead men's nails before a funeral, in order to prevent the specters of Mörhogg from receiving building materials.
‘I believe it. I know the power of legends.’
The fjord shielded them somewhat from the wind and the sails began to beat.
‘Blast the horn,’ Crach ordered the crew. ‘Let the holy women know that we come to visit.’
The building, which was at the upper end of a long stone staircase, looked like a giant hedgehog – it was overgrown with so much of moss, ivy, and shrubbery. Up on its roof, Yennefer noticed not only shrubs, but even small trees.
‘There is the temple now,’ confirmed Crach. ‘The grove that surrounds it is also a place of worship. Here, take forth the sacred mistletoe. On Skellige, as you know, everything is decorated with mistletoe, from the cradle of the newborn to the grave... Watch out, the stairs are slippery... religion, hehe, overgrown with moss... Come, I'll take you by the arm... Still the same kind of perfume... Yenna...’
‘Crach. I beg you. The past is the past and was not written into the register.’
‘Forgive me. Let's go.’
A couple of young and silent priestesses waited in front of the temple. The Earl greeted them politely and expressed a desire to speak with their leader, who he called Modron Sigrdrifa. They went inside, which was illuminated by beams of light that shone through high-lying glass windows. One of these beams of light illuminated the altar.
‘A hundred monkfish,’ muttered Crach an Craite. ‘I forgot how great it is, this Brisingamen. I have not been here since my childhood... with this you could probably buy all the shipyards in Cidaris. Together with the work of the people and annual production.’
The Earl was exaggerating. But not by much.
Above the modest marble altar, over the figures of cats and hawks, on the stone shell of the votive offerings, rose the statue of Modron Freya, The Great Mother, in her typical motherly aspect – a woman in flowing robes, her pregnancy revealed and exaggerated by one of the sculptors. With her head bowed and facial features covered with a cloth. Above the folded hands on her breast was a diamond the goddess was wearing as part of a golden necklace. The diamond had a slightly bluish hue. It was large. Very large.
An estimated one hundred and fifty carats.
‘One would not even need cut it,’ whispered Yennefer. ‘It has a rosette cut, exactly what I need. Just the right facets for the refraction of light...’
‘That means we're in luck.’
‘Hardly. Here they are priestesses, and I'm a ungodly witch to be thrown out in disgrace.’
‘You're exaggerating?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Be welcome, Earl, in the temple of the Mother. Be thou also welcome, worthy Yennefer of Vengerberg.’
Crach an Craite bowed. ‘Hail, Revered Mother Sigrdrifa.’
The priestess was tall, almost as big as Crach – and that meant that she was a head taller than Yennefer. She had light hair and eyes, and an elongated, not very pretty and not very womanly face.
I have seen her somewhere, thought Yennefer. Recently. Where?
‘On the steps of Kaer Trolde, leading to the seaport,’ the priestess reminded her, smiling. ‘When the ships arrived in the sound. I stood over you as you helped a pregnant woman who was about to lose her child. On your knees, without worrying about your very expensive camlet dress. I saw that. And will never again tell stories of callous and calculating sorceresses.’
Yennefer cleared her throat and bowed her head.
‘You stand before the altar of the Mother, Yennefer. So you might be given her grace.’
‘Revered Mother, I... I would humbly ask you...’
‘Do not say anything. Earl, you no doubt have a lot to do. Leave us alone, here on Hindarsfjall. We are able to communicate. We are women. It does not matter what profession we pursue or who we are: We are virgins, mothers, and crones. Kneel down next to me, Yennefer. Bow your head to the Mother.’
‘Take the Brisingamen from the Goddess' neck?’ Repeated Sigrdrifa, the disbelief in her voice battling holy outrage. ‘No, Yennefer. That is simply impossible. It does not even matter that I would not dare... Even if I would dare, the Brisingamen cannot be removed. The necklace has no clasp. It is connected with the statue.’
Yennefer remained silent for a long moment, measuring the priestess with a calm eye. ‘If I had known,’ she said coldly, ‘I would have left immediately with the Earl for Ard Skellig. No, no, I think the time I spent talking to you was by no means wasted. But I have very little of it. Truly, very little. I confess, your kindness and warmth misled me a little...’
‘I wish you well,’ Sigrdrifa interrupted her indifferently. ‘Also, I approve of your plans, with all my heart. I knew Ciri. I loved that child, her fate moved me. I admire you for the determination with which you rush to help the child. I will fulfill your every wish. But not the Brisingamen, Yennefer. Not the Brisingamen. Please, do not ask.’
‘Sigrdrifa, to come to Ciri's rescue I have to quickly acquire some knowledge. Some information. Without it, I am powerless. Knowledge and information
that I can only get in the way of telecommunications. In order to communicate over long distances, I need to construct, with the help of magic, a magic artifact. A megascope.’
‘A device such as your famous crystal ball?’
‘Much more complicated. A crystal ball allows telecommunications only with a different ball that has been attuned to it. A dwarf at the local bank even has a crystal ball – to communicate with the ball in the vault. A megascope offers somewhat greater opportunities... But why theorize? Without the diamond it does not matter anyway. Well, I'll say goodbye...’
‘Not so fast.’
Sigrdrifa got up, walked through the nave, and stopped in front of the altar and the statue of Modron Freya. ‘The Goddess,’ she said, ‘is also the patron of psychics. Of clairvoyant women. Of telepaths. This is symbolized by the sacred animals: the cat who watches and listens in secret, and the falcon, who looks down from high above. It is symbolized by the jewel of the Goddess: the Brisingamen, the collar of clairvoyance. Why build any seeing and listening devices, Yennefer? Is not it easier to turn to the Goddess for help?’
Yennefer restrained herself from cursing at the last moment. After all, this was a place of worship.
‘It is almost time for the evening prayer,’ continued Sigrdrifa. ‘Together with the other priestesses, I will dedicate my time to meditation. I'm going to ask the Goddess to help Ciri. For Ciri was here in this temple many a time and has many a time seen the Brisingamen on the neck of the Great Mother. Sacrifice another hour or two of your valuable time, Yennefer. Stay here with us for the time of prayer. Support me while I pray. With your thoughts and your presence.’
‘Sigrdrifa...’
‘Please. Do it for me. And for Ciri.’
The jeweled Brisingamen. On the neck of the Goddess.
She stifled a yawn. At least if there were any songs, any petitions, any mysteries... some mystical folklore... it would be less boring, sleep would not impose itself in this way. But they just kneel there and put their heads down. Motionless, Silent.
‘Really?’ Crach an Craite asked in amazement. ‘You're not even going to try them? Not one of these tasty morsels?’
‘Really.’
The Earl did not insist as he helped himself to a lobster from a shallow bowl, put it on the table, and struck it with a powerful but unerringly precise blow that cleaved the length of it. After he had poured plenty of lemon juice and garlic over it, he began to pick the meat out of the shell. With his fingers.
Yennefer ate in a mannered fashion, with a silver knife and a fork – but she ate a mutton chop, which had surprised and probably offended the chef who had specially prepared the meal for them. For the sorceress wanted neither oysters nor mussels, or the au-jus marinated salmon, or the soup of Trigla and cockles, or the steamed tail of angler fish, or even the baked swordfish, braised eel, octopus, crab, lobster, or seaurchins. And also – especially – no fresh algae.
Anything that even remotely smelled of the sea reminded her of Fringilla Vigo and Philippa Eilhart – of the insanely risky teleportation, the fall in the waves, and the swallowed sea water. The way the algae floated in the bowl also reminded her of something. Of the algae that had been beaten to a pulp on her head and shoulders by the crippling painful blows of pine oars.
‘So I,’ Crach took up the conversation again, as he sucked the flesh from the broken leg joints of the lobster, ‘have decided to trust you, Yennefer. You should know I do not do this for your sake. The Bloedgeas, the blood oath that I gave in front of Calanthe, practically binds my hands. So if you plan to help Ciri, genuinely and honestly – which I assume is true – it seems to me that I have no choice but to help you in this endeavor...’
‘Thank you. But please spare me that pathetic tone. I repeat: I did not participate in the conspiracy on Thanedd. Trust me.’
He waved his hand. ‘Is it so important what I think? You would do better to start with the kings and their agents around the world, like Dijkstra. Then Philippa Eilhart and the loyal magicians. Who, as you yourself have admitted, you already faced and as a result have fled here to Skellige. You must have presented the evidence you had...’
‘I have no evidence,’ she interrupted him and angrily poked her fork in the sprouts, which the cook had added to the insulting lamb chops. ‘And if I did, I would not present it. I can’t explain what binds me to silence. But believe me, Crach. I beg you.’
‘I told you...’
‘You did’, she cut him off. ‘You told me you would help me. Thank you. But you still do not believe in my innocence. Believe it.’
Crach eyed the last morsels in the lobster shell and then moved on to the bowl of mussels. He poked and rattled around inside the bowl, searching for the largest.
‘Agreed,’ he said finally, wiping his hands on the tablecloth. ‘I believe it. Because I want to believe it. But asylum and refuge, I will not grant you. I cannot. You can leave the Skellige Islands whenever and to wherever you want. I would recommend hurrying. You are here, as we say ‘on the wings of magic’. Others may arrive on your trail. They also know the spells.’
‘I do not seek asylum or safe haven, Earl. I search. I must hurry to help Ciri.’
‘Ciri,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘The lion cub... She was a strange child.’
‘Was?’
‘Oh.’ Again he waved his hand. ‘I spoke poorly. ‘Was’ because she is no longer a child. I did not mean to upset you. Cirilla, the lion cub of Cintra... She spent a summer and a winter in Skellige. More than once she caused chaos – but hey! That was an imp, not a lion cub... Damn, I already said... Yennefer, various rumors have reached us from the mainland... Some say that Ciri is in Nilfgaard...’
‘She's not in Nilfgaard.’
‘Others say that the girl is no more.’
Yennefer remained silent, biting her lip.
‘But with this second rumor’, the Earl said firmly, ‘I disagree. Ciri lives. I'm sure of it. There has been no proof whatsoever... She is alive!’
Yennefer raised her eyebrows, but asked no questions. For a long time they were silent, listening to the roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs of Ard Skellig.
‘Yennefer,’ Crach said after a while. ‘There are other messages that have come from the continent. I understand that your witcher, who stayed in Brokilon after the fight on Thanedd, has set out from there to reach Nilfgaard and liberate Ciri.’
‘I repeat, Ciri is not in Nilfgaard. And what my witcher, as you call him, intends to do, I do not know. But he... Crach, it's no secret that he and I... that I am sympathetic to him. But I know he will not save Ciri. He will achieve nothing. I know him. He’ll get caught up, lost in his own philosophizing, and wallow in self pity. He’ll vent his anger and hack at anyone and anything he comes across. Then, in expiation, he’ll do some grand, but pointless deed. In the end, he’ll be slain, stupidly and needlessly, most likely by a stab in the back.’
‘It is said’, Crach threw in quickly, frightened by the ominous changes and strange trembling voice of the sorceress, ‘that Ciri is his destiny. I've seen it myself, back in Cintra, at Pavetta’s betrothal...’
‘Predestination,’ Yennefer sharply interrupted him, ‘can be interpreted in different ways. Very different ways. However, time is too precious for such discussions. I repeat, I do not know what he's up to and whether Geralt intends anything. I accept that. In my own way. And act, Crach, act. I do not care to sit here, crying and holding my head in my hands. I will act!’
The Earl raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
‘I will act’, repeated the sorceress. ‘I've been thinking of a plan. And you, Crach, will help me, true to the oath that you have taken.’
‘I'm ready,’ he announced firmly. ‘Right now. The dragon boats are in the harbor. Command, Yennefer.’
She could not resist bursting into laughter.
‘Still the old man. No, Crach, no proof of courage and manliness is required. There will be no need to go to Nilfgaard and hew the golden door latch of their cities with an axe. I need less spectacular help. But more concrete... How are things with your treasury?’
‘What?’
‘Earl Crach an Craite. The help I need can be converted into currency.’
It started the next day, when it was light. In the rooms that had been made available to Yennefer a mad hustle dominated and Seneschal Guthlaf accommodated the sorceress only with great difficulty.
Yennefer sat at a table and barely looked up from her papers. She counted and summed columns of presented invoices, which had been hurried from the Treasury and the island's branch of the Cianfanelli Bank. She sketched and drew, and the drawings and designs were immediately handed over to the artisans – alchemists, goldsmiths, glass blowers, and jewelers.
For a while everything went smoothly, then the trouble started.
‘I'm sorry, Lady Sorceress,’ said Seneschal Guthlaf. ‘What is not is not. We have given you all that we had. You might be able to accomplish miracles and magic, but not us! Now, I'd like to note that the diamonds laid out before are worth a total value of...’
‘What good is their value to me?’ She hissed. ‘I have need of a diamond, but it must be big. How so, Master?’
The jeweler looked again at the drawing. ‘To do such and to cut such facets? At least thirty carats.’
‘Such a stone’, Guthlaf stated categorically, ‘does not exist on Skellige.’
‘That's not true,’ disagreed the jeweler. ‘There is one.’
‘How do you
‘A request may be granted?’
‘Yes. An attempt will do no harm. What is there to lose? We two will travel to Hindarsfjall and recite this request. I will let the priestesses understand that I am keen. And then it's up to you. Negotiate. Argue. Try bribery. Appeal to the ambition. Appeal to your common professions. Cry despairingly, twist into convulsions, excite pity... In all, act like a monkfish. Shall I give lessons, Yennefer?’
‘There is no use, Crach. A sorceress will never find a common ground with a priestess. Both are too certain about... ideological differences. And to allow a sorceress to use a ‘holy' relic or artifact... No, forget it. There is no chance...’
‘What do you need with this diamond anyway?’
‘To build a ‘window' for telecommunications. That is, a megascope. I have to convince a couple of people to agree with me.’
‘Magic? Over long distance?’
‘If it would be sufficient to climb the highest tower of Kaer Trolde and shout out loud, I would not bother you.’
The gulls and petrels screamed as they circled over the water. On the steep rocks and reefs of Hindarsfjall, the penetrating chirps of nesting Red-billed Oystercatchers mixed with the hoarse croaking and chattering of Yellow-Headed Booby's. A black Sea Cormorant with her bonnet observed the approaching ship with sparkling green eyes.
‘That huge rock towering over the water’ – explained Crach an Craite as he leaned on the railing – ‘is Kaer Hemdall, the guardian Hemdall who shall be awakened. Hemdall is our mythical hero. According to legend, when Tedd Deireádh comes – the time of the end, the time of the white cold and storms of the wolf, Hemdall will awaken to battle the evil powers of the land of Mörhogg – the specters, demons and phantoms of chaos. He will stand upon a rainbow bridge and blow his horn as a sign that it is time to take up arms and march. To Ragh Nar Roog, the last battle, which will decide whether the night falls down or the morning comes.’
The ship danced through the waves and slipped into the calmer waters of a bay between the guardian Hemdall's rock and another, just as fantastically shaped.
‘The smaller rock is Kambi,’ said the Earl. ‘Kambi, in our myths, is a golden rooster that crows to awaken Hemdall and warn him that Naglfar is approaching, the infernal dragon ship that carries the army of Chaos – the demons and specters from Mörhogg. Naglfar is built from the fingernails of the dead. You wouldn't believe it Yennefer, but there are still people on the Skellige Islands who cut off dead men's nails before a funeral, in order to prevent the specters of Mörhogg from receiving building materials.
‘I believe it. I know the power of legends.’
The fjord shielded them somewhat from the wind and the sails began to beat.
‘Blast the horn,’ Crach ordered the crew. ‘Let the holy women know that we come to visit.’
The building, which was at the upper end of a long stone staircase, looked like a giant hedgehog – it was overgrown with so much of moss, ivy, and shrubbery. Up on its roof, Yennefer noticed not only shrubs, but even small trees.
‘There is the temple now,’ confirmed Crach. ‘The grove that surrounds it is also a place of worship. Here, take forth the sacred mistletoe. On Skellige, as you know, everything is decorated with mistletoe, from the cradle of the newborn to the grave... Watch out, the stairs are slippery... religion, hehe, overgrown with moss... Come, I'll take you by the arm... Still the same kind of perfume... Yenna...’
‘Crach. I beg you. The past is the past and was not written into the register.’
‘Forgive me. Let's go.’
A couple of young and silent priestesses waited in front of the temple. The Earl greeted them politely and expressed a desire to speak with their leader, who he called Modron Sigrdrifa. They went inside, which was illuminated by beams of light that shone through high-lying glass windows. One of these beams of light illuminated the altar.
‘A hundred monkfish,’ muttered Crach an Craite. ‘I forgot how great it is, this Brisingamen. I have not been here since my childhood... with this you could probably buy all the shipyards in Cidaris. Together with the work of the people and annual production.’
The Earl was exaggerating. But not by much.
Above the modest marble altar, over the figures of cats and hawks, on the stone shell of the votive offerings, rose the statue of Modron Freya, The Great Mother, in her typical motherly aspect – a woman in flowing robes, her pregnancy revealed and exaggerated by one of the sculptors. With her head bowed and facial features covered with a cloth. Above the folded hands on her breast was a diamond the goddess was wearing as part of a golden necklace. The diamond had a slightly bluish hue. It was large. Very large.
An estimated one hundred and fifty carats.
‘One would not even need cut it,’ whispered Yennefer. ‘It has a rosette cut, exactly what I need. Just the right facets for the refraction of light...’
‘That means we're in luck.’
‘Hardly. Here they are priestesses, and I'm a ungodly witch to be thrown out in disgrace.’
‘You're exaggerating?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Be welcome, Earl, in the temple of the Mother. Be thou also welcome, worthy Yennefer of Vengerberg.’
Crach an Craite bowed. ‘Hail, Revered Mother Sigrdrifa.’
The priestess was tall, almost as big as Crach – and that meant that she was a head taller than Yennefer. She had light hair and eyes, and an elongated, not very pretty and not very womanly face.
I have seen her somewhere, thought Yennefer. Recently. Where?
‘On the steps of Kaer Trolde, leading to the seaport,’ the priestess reminded her, smiling. ‘When the ships arrived in the sound. I stood over you as you helped a pregnant woman who was about to lose her child. On your knees, without worrying about your very expensive camlet dress. I saw that. And will never again tell stories of callous and calculating sorceresses.’
Yennefer cleared her throat and bowed her head.
‘You stand before the altar of the Mother, Yennefer. So you might be given her grace.’
‘Revered Mother, I... I would humbly ask you...’
‘Do not say anything. Earl, you no doubt have a lot to do. Leave us alone, here on Hindarsfjall. We are able to communicate. We are women. It does not matter what profession we pursue or who we are: We are virgins, mothers, and crones. Kneel down next to me, Yennefer. Bow your head to the Mother.’
‘Take the Brisingamen from the Goddess' neck?’ Repeated Sigrdrifa, the disbelief in her voice battling holy outrage. ‘No, Yennefer. That is simply impossible. It does not even matter that I would not dare... Even if I would dare, the Brisingamen cannot be removed. The necklace has no clasp. It is connected with the statue.’
Yennefer remained silent for a long moment, measuring the priestess with a calm eye. ‘If I had known,’ she said coldly, ‘I would have left immediately with the Earl for Ard Skellig. No, no, I think the time I spent talking to you was by no means wasted. But I have very little of it. Truly, very little. I confess, your kindness and warmth misled me a little...’
‘I wish you well,’ Sigrdrifa interrupted her indifferently. ‘Also, I approve of your plans, with all my heart. I knew Ciri. I loved that child, her fate moved me. I admire you for the determination with which you rush to help the child. I will fulfill your every wish. But not the Brisingamen, Yennefer. Not the Brisingamen. Please, do not ask.’
‘Sigrdrifa, to come to Ciri's rescue I have to quickly acquire some knowledge. Some information. Without it, I am powerless. Knowledge and information
‘A device such as your famous crystal ball?’
‘Much more complicated. A crystal ball allows telecommunications only with a different ball that has been attuned to it. A dwarf at the local bank even has a crystal ball – to communicate with the ball in the vault. A megascope offers somewhat greater opportunities... But why theorize? Without the diamond it does not matter anyway. Well, I'll say goodbye...’
‘Not so fast.’
Sigrdrifa got up, walked through the nave, and stopped in front of the altar and the statue of Modron Freya. ‘The Goddess,’ she said, ‘is also the patron of psychics. Of clairvoyant women. Of telepaths. This is symbolized by the sacred animals: the cat who watches and listens in secret, and the falcon, who looks down from high above. It is symbolized by the jewel of the Goddess: the Brisingamen, the collar of clairvoyance. Why build any seeing and listening devices, Yennefer? Is not it easier to turn to the Goddess for help?’
Yennefer restrained herself from cursing at the last moment. After all, this was a place of worship.
‘It is almost time for the evening prayer,’ continued Sigrdrifa. ‘Together with the other priestesses, I will dedicate my time to meditation. I'm going to ask the Goddess to help Ciri. For Ciri was here in this temple many a time and has many a time seen the Brisingamen on the neck of the Great Mother. Sacrifice another hour or two of your valuable time, Yennefer. Stay here with us for the time of prayer. Support me while I pray. With your thoughts and your presence.’
‘Sigrdrifa...’
‘Please. Do it for me. And for Ciri.’
The jeweled Brisingamen. On the neck of the Goddess.
She stifled a yawn. At least if there were any songs, any petitions, any mysteries... some mystical folklore... it would be less boring, sleep would not impose itself in this way. But they just kneel there and put their heads down. Motionless, Silent.