The Tower of the Swallow Read online

  ‘I was stupid! Oh, what the heck, maybe he stayed there and bled to death on Thanedd...Why are you looking at me?’

  ‘Continue. Tell me how you rode after Hotsporn to gain your inheritance. In order to obtain what was yours.’

  ‘You don’t need to speak so reproachfully, don't need to scoff. Yes, I realize that it was stupid, I see that now. Even back then... in Kaer Morhen and the Temple of Melitele I had been wiser – I knew that my past could not return, that I was no longer the princess of Cintra, but someone completely different, that I had no inheritance, that it was lost and that I had to accept it. It had been explained to me wisely and calmly, and I had accepted it. Likewise calmly. Then suddenly it began to return. The first time someone tried to impress me with the title of Baroness Casadei... I had never cared about such things before, but I suddenly became furious, stretching my nose up high and screaming that I would have an even higher title, that I was of much nobler birth. And from then on I couldn't stop thinking about it. I could feel the anger growing in me. Do you understand, Vysogota?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Hotsporn's story was the last straw. I was almost boiling with rage... They had previously talked to me so much of predestination... And now someone else was enjoying this predestination, thanks to an ordinary hoax. Someone had posed as me, as Ciri of Cintra, and could do anything, could bathe in the luxury... No, I could think of nothing else... Suddenly I realized that I never had enough to eat, that I was freezing cold, that I slept under the open sky, that I had to wash the private parts in icy streams... I! I could have had a gold-plated tub! Water that smells of lavender and roses! Warmed towels! A clean bed! Do you understand Vysogota?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All of the sudden, I was ready to ride to the next province, to the next fort, to those black Nilfgaardians I feared and hated so much... I was willing to say, ‘Hey Nilfgaardian idiots, I'm Ciri, I have not been taken by your stupid emperor for his wife, they have planted some brazen impostor with your emperor, and the idiot did not even notice the scam!' I was so keen that I would have done it, if an opportunity presented itself. Without hesitation. Do you understand Vysogota?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fortunately, I calmed down.’

  ‘To your good fortune.’ He nodded seriously. ‘Those imperial marriages have all the features of any state affair – a battle of political parties or factions. If you had revealed yourself, some influential forces would have made quick calculations about you and you probably would have ended up with a dagger in your back or poisoned, just to be safe.’

  ‘I also understood that. And I noticed. I remembered that well. To reveal who I was meant death. I had the opportunity to convince them. But I did not anticipate.’

  For a time they were silent while they worked on the skins. The catch of the last few days had been unexpectedly plentiful; they had found many muskrats and nutria in the traps and snares, as well as two otters and a beaver. They had a lot of work to do.

  ‘Did you catch up to Hotsporn?’ Vysogota finally asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Ciri wiped her forehead with her sleeve. ‘And I caught up with him quickly, because he was in no hurry. And he wasn’t even surprised when he saw me!’

  ‘Miss Falka!’ Hotsporn pulled his reins and his black mare turned and pranced. ‘What a very pleasant surprise! Although I must admit that it is not quite as large as it is pleasant. I expected you, I'll admit that I expected you. I could see that you were about to make a decision. A wise decision. I see the sparkle of intelligence in those beautiful and enchanting eyes.’

  Ciri rode closer, so close that their stirrups almost touched. Then she cleared her throat, leaned over and spat on the sand of the road. She had learned to spit in such a way – it was disgusting, but also effective to cool the zeal of a would-be seducer.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Hotsporn with a hint of smile, ‘that you wish to take advantage of the amnesty?’

  ‘Then you suppose wrong.’

  ‘To what then, should I attribute the joy given to me at the sight of the lady’s beautiful little face?’

  ‘Do you need a reason?’ She hissed. ‘At the station you said that you always welcome travelling companions.’

  ‘True.’ His smile was open. ‘But if I am wrong in regards to the amnesty, then I do not know whether we have the same path. We are, as you can see, at a crossroads. A crossroads, four directions, the need to decide... the symbolism from the famous fairy tale. If you go east, you will not return... If you go west, you will not return... and north... hmm... To the north of this post, lies the amnesty...’

  ‘Stick your amnesty somewhere else.’

  ‘As the lady orders. So where, may I ask, are you headed? Which direction of the symbolic crossroads? Master Alma Vera, the artist of the needle, has driven his mule to the west, to the town of Fano. The eastern highway leads to the settlement of Jealousy, though I would urgently advise against travelling that way...’

  ‘The Yarra River,’ said Ciri slowly, ‘which you spoke of in the station… it is the Nilfgaardian name for the Yaruga, is not it?’

  ‘The young lady is so knowledgeable’ – he leaned forward and looked into her eyes – ’but does not know that?’

  ‘Can’t you respond properly when you are politely asked a question?’

  ‘I was just having a little fun, why are you so angry? Yes, it is the same river. In Elvish and Nilfgaardian the Yarra, in the north the Yaruga.’

  ‘And the mouth of this river,’ continued Ciri, ‘is in Cintra?’

  ‘Yes, my lady. Cintra.’

  ‘How far is it from here, Cintra? How many miles?’

  ‘A lot. And it depends on whose mile you use. Nearly every other nation has their own measurement, and it is easy to confuse them. That is why the travelling merchants measure such distances in days. To ride from here to Cintra would take twenty-five or thirty such days.’

  ‘Where? Directly to the north?’

  ‘It appears Miss Falka is very interested in this Cintra. Why?’

  ‘I will ascend the throne there.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Hotsporn raised his hands in a defensive gesture. ‘I can see that it’s a delicate matter, I won’t ask any more questions. The easiest way to Cintra, paradoxically, is not directly to the north, because roadless terrain and a marshy lake district will impede your progress. Instead, you should travel to the city Forgeham, and then ride to northwest for Metinna, the capital of the country with the same name. Then you cross the Mag Deira Plains and follow the trade route until you reach the city of Neunreuth. Take the north highway out of Neunreuth, which runs along the valley of river Yelena. From there it is easy to find: follow the constant lines of troops and military transports that travel the road. That will lead you to the valley of Marnadal, by Nazair, and over the Marnadal Stairs, the pass that leads north. And that's already Cintra.’

  ‘Hmm...’ Ciri stared at the misty horizon, blurred with lines of black hills. ‘After Forgeham, ride to the northwest... that means... how far?’

  ‘You know what, Miss?’ Hotsporn smiled gently. ‘I'm on my way to Forgeham, and then onto Metinna and the trade route that extends between the hills. If the lady will ride with me, she will not get lost. Towards amnesty, but not to amnesty. Still, it would be my pleasure to work and travel with such a beautiful young lady.’

  Ciri gave him the coldest look she had. Hotsporn returned a mischievous smile. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Bravo, Miss Falka. A wise decision. As I said, the lady is as smart as she is beautiful.’

  ‘Stop calling me Miss, Hotsporn. The way you say it makes it sound insulting somehow, and I will not be insulted with impunity.’

  ‘As the lady orders.’

  The beautiful dawn had not fulfilled the expectations it had set. The day that followed was gray and wet.

  Damp fog dulled the bright colors of autumn foliage on the trees, which leaned over the road. Thousands of
browns, reds and yellows could be seen.

  The humid air smelled of bark and fungi.

  They rode at a walk on a cushion of fallen leaves, but Hotsporn often drove his black mare to a trot or gallop. Ciri watched enviously.

  ‘Does she have a name?’

  ‘No.’ Hotsporn smiled, teeth gleaming. ‘I treat mounts from the point of usefulness; they change very often, so I pay them no loyalty. I consider it over the top to name horses if you are not keeping a breeding book. Don’t you agree? The horse Goldhans, the dog Bello, and the cat Mohrle. Over the top!’

  Ciri did not like the looks he gave her or his eloquent smile, and least of all the slightly mocking tone in which he asked or answered questions. So she used a simple approach – silent, monosyllabic language that did not provoke him. If it worked. Sometimes it did not work. Especially when he talked about his amnesty. However, when she once again – and quite sharply – expressed her displeasure, Hotsporn surprisingly changed tactics: He suddenly proclaimed that the amnesty was unnecessary in their case, because it didn’t even apply to them. The amnesty was for criminals, he said, not the victims of crime.

  Ciri laughed uproariously. ‘You are a victim yourself, Hotsporn!’

  ‘I'm quite serious,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not trying to make you laugh, but rather suggesting a way that you can save your skin if you are ever captured. Of course, it won’t work with Baron Casadei, and the Varnhagens would show you no mercy either – in the best case, you would be lynched on the spot, quickly and painlessly if you were lucky. However, if you are captured by the governor and stand before the strict but fair face of imperial justice... Well, then I would suggest this defense tactic: You break down in tears and declare yourself the innocent victim of circumstances.’

  ‘Who would believe that?’

  ‘Everyone.’ Hotsporn leaned over in the saddle and looked into her eyes. ‘Because it is the truth. You're an innocent victim, Falka. You are not yet sixteen years old, so according to the laws of the Empire you're underage. You came into the Rats’ gang by chance. It's not your fault that one of the female bandits, Mistle, had an eye for you, her unnatural tendencies are well known. You have been subjugated by Mistle, sexually exploited and forced to...’

  ‘Well, there I’m going to have to interrupt you, yes,’ Ciri was surprised by her calm voice. ‘Finally we have it, the truth about you, Hotsporn. I've experienced people like you before.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Like every cockerel’ – she was still speaking calmly – ‘Your crest swells at the thought of Mistle and me. Like every stupid little man, the thought arises in your stupid head that you should try to cure me of this unnatural disease and lead me back onto the path of reality. But you know what is disgusting and unnatural in all this? Those very thoughts!’

  Hotsporn looked at her silently, with a somewhat enigmatic smile on his thin lips.

  ‘My thoughts, dear Falka,’ he said after a while, ‘might not be decent, might not be pretty, might not be… pah, they obviously aren’t innocent... But, by the gods, they are in accordance with nature. My nature. You insult me, if you think my affection for you is based on some... perverse curiosity. Ha, you insult yourself if you ignore or do not notice the fact that your seductive charm and the exceptional beauty of your assets force every man to his knees. That the magic of your glance...’

  ‘Listen, Hotsporn,’ she interrupted him. ‘Are you just counting down the moments until you can sleep with me?’

  ‘What shrewdness.’ He spread his hands. ‘I have no words.’

  ‘Then I'll help you.’ She drove her horse forward a little and looked back at him over her shoulder. ‘Because I have enough words to share. I am honored. Under other circumstances, who knows... If it were anyone other than you, ha! But you, Hotsporn, do not appeal to me at all. Nothing, absolutely nothing about you attracts me. I would say quite the contrary: Everything about you repels me. You must admit that, under such circumstances, sexual intercourse would be an act against nature.’

  Hotsporn drove his horse forward as well and continued to smile. The black mare began to prance down the road and gracefully threw up her lovely head. Ciri turned side to side in the saddle, struggling with a strange sensation that had suddenly arisen in her, somewhere deep inside, in the lower abdomen. It rapidly and persistently pushed outward, on the skin irritated by clothing. I told him the truth, thought Ciri. I do not like him, hell, it his horse that I like, his black mare. Not him, but the horse... What a fucking idiot! No, no, no! Even if I disregard Mistle, it would be ridiculous and stupid for me to give in to him only because I am excited by the sight of a black horse prancing on the road.

  Hotsporn approached and looked into her eyes with a curious smile. Then he jerked at the reins again, forcing the mare to stamp and turn sideways, prancing. He knows, Ciri thought, he old bastard knows what I feel.

  Damn it. I'm just curious!

  ‘Pine needles,’ said Hotsporn gently, while he rode up close and stretched out his hand, ‘have become hooked in your hair. I'll take them out, if you allow. I should add that the gesture springs from my gallantry, not a perverse desire.’

  She was not surprised to discover his touch felt pleasant to her. The decision was still very far away, but for safety's sake she calculated the days since her last menstrual period. Yennefer had taught her – count in advance and with a cool head, because later, when things heat up, the head takes on a strange reluctance for calculating, along with an inclination to take consequences too lightly.

  Hotsporn looked into her eyes and smiled, as if he knew that the calculation had come out in his favor. If only he were not so old, Ciri secretly sighed. He must be more than thirty.

  ‘Tourmalines.’ Hotsporn’s fingers gently touched her ear and the earring. ‘Pretty, but only tourmalines. I would give you emeralds to wear. Their precious and penetrating green would be more appropriate for your beauty and eye color.’

  ‘Look,’ she said slowly and looked at him boldly, ‘even if something were going to happen, I would demand the emeralds in advance. Because surely horses aren’t the only thing you treat in terms of usefulness, Hotsporn. The morning after an exciting night you would think it ‘over the top’ for me to remind you of my name. The dog Bello, the cat Mohrle, and the girl – Marie!’

  ‘Quite right.’ He forced a smile. ‘You manage to cool down even the most passionate desires, Snow Queen.’

  ‘I had a good teacher.’

  The fog had lifted a little, but it was still cloudy. And sleepy. The sleepiness was brutally interrupted by shouts and the sound of hooves. Riders emerged from behind the oaks they had just past.

  Both acted so quickly and so in step with one another that it appeared they had rehearsed it for weeks. They stopped, turned the horses, and instantly went into a furious gallop, crouching to their horses’ manes and urging them on with cries and heel strikes. Screaming, stomping, and rattling could be heard over the buzz of the feathered arrows that flew above their heads.

  ‘Into the forest,’ Hotsporn called to her. ‘Turn off into the woods! Into the brush!’

  They veered off without slowing down. Ciri pressed herself flat, almost down to her horse's neck, because the branches whipping at her threatened to pull her from the saddle. She saw a crossbow bolt strike and splinter the trunk of an alder tree as she rode past. Screaming, she urged her horse to go faster, expecting an arrow to pierce her back at any moment. Hotsporn, riding tight beside her, suddenly let out a strange groan.

  They set off next to a deep ravine and rode down a hill at breakneck speed into a large undergrowth of thorn bushes. Suddenly, Hotsporn slipped from the saddle and fell into the bushes. The black mare whinnied, reared up, flicked her tail and ran. Ciri did not hesitate. She jumped off and gave her horse a slap on the rump. It raced after the black mare as Ciri helped Hotsporn get up. The two humans fled deeper into the underbrush, through a clump of alders, and launched themselves into the ravine. They rolled down
the slope and landed at the bottom of the ravine among high ferns. Moss and mushrooms softened their fall.

  Hoofs echoed from the top of the slope – luckily their pursuers were riding through the forest, chasing after the fleeing horses. No one seemed to notice that they had disappeared into the ferns.

  ‘Who are they?’ whispered Ciri. She wiggled her way out from under Hotsporn, who had landed on her during the fall, then started picking mushrooms out of her hair. ‘The governor’s people? The Varnhagens?’

  ‘Ordinary bandits...’ Hotsporn spat leaves. ‘Ruffians...’

  ‘Offer the amnesty to them.’ She crunched sand between their teeth. ‘Promise them...’

  ‘Be quiet. They might hear you.’

  ‘Hooo! Hooo! Heeeeree!’ It sounded condescending. ‘Go around from left! From the leeefttt!’

  ‘Hotsporn?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have blood on your back.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied coldly as he tore a strip of cloth from the front of his shirt and turned his back to her. ‘Stuff it under my shirt. By my left shoulder blade...’

  ‘Where did it get you? I don’t see a bolt...’

  ‘It was a pellet crossbow... loaded with a piece of iron, most likely capped with a blacksmith’s nail. Don’t touch it. It’s too close to the spine...’

  ‘Damn it. What should I do then?’

  ‘Remain silent. They are coming back.’

  Hooves pounded and someone whistled shrilly. Someone yelled, cried, and issued an order to turn around. Ciri pricked up her ears.

  ‘Ride away,’ she murmured. ‘They have abandoned the pursuit. And they failed to capture the horses.’