Eithné smiled.
—A Child of the Elder Blood…
Geralt's eyes widened. For an instant, he lost the indifferent expression that so rarely left his face.
—What did you say?
The dryad held his gaze without blinking.
—Yes, Geralt. Children of the Elder Blood are still being born in the world, those of whom the prophecies speak. And you say that something is coming to an end… You worry that we will not endure…
The witcher remained silent. The muscles of his jaw tightened.
—That is why I do not fear for Brokilon —the queen of the dryads continued—. Humans build cities and then abandon them. They build kingdoms and watch them crumble. They believe they rule the world because their lives are short and they are in a hurry. The forest is not in a hurry.
—Everything dies, Eithné.
—Yes. But not everything disappears.
The smile slowly returned to her lips.
—And even less so that which has been touched by the Elder Blood…
—This child was supposed to marry Kistrin of Verden —Geralt interrupted her—. It's a pity she won't. Kistrin will one day inherit the kingdom after Ervyll, and with a wife who thinks like this by his side, wouldn't he perhaps stop the attacks against Brokilon?
—I don't want Kistrin! —Ciri shrieked, and something flashed in her green eyes—. Let Kistrin find his own beautiful and foolish material! I am not material! Nor am I going to be a princess!
—Silence, Child of the Elder Blood —the dryad put an arm around the girl—. Do not shout. Of course you will not be a princess…
—Of course —Geralt added acidly—. You and I, Eithné, know well what she will be. I see it's all decided already. A pity. What answer am I to take to King Venzlav, Lady of Brokilon?
—None.
—What do you mean, none?
—None. He will understand.
Eithné leaned forward.
—You say everything is coming to an end, but you are wrong. There are things that endure. I do not fight for the past, but for survival. Brokilon still stands because I protect it, just as trees survive men if they are spared from your axes. You speak to me of kings and princesses, but those I knew are now forgotten skeletons in the necropolises of Craag An. Neither Venzlav nor you remember who they were. So how can you say that something ends? How do you know who is destined to disappear and who to endure? Do you even know what destiny is?
—No —Geralt admitted—. I don't. But…
—If you don't know —she interrupted—, there is no room for any "but." You don't know. You simply don't know.
Eithné passed her hand over her forehead and turned her face toward the dimness.
—When you were here the first time —she continued—, you didn't know either. Morénn… My daughter… Geralt, Morénn is dead. She died by the Cintas River, defending Brokilon. I didn't recognize her when they brought her to me. Her face was destroyed by your horses' hooves. Destiny? And today you, the witcher who could not give Morénn a child, bring her to me. A Child of the Elder Blood.
—Mighty… noble lady —Ciri said, her voice on the verge of breaking—. Do not keep me here. I cannot… I want to… go home. I want to go home with Geralt. I… have to go with him.
—Why with him?
—Because he… He is my destiny.
Eithné snorted with disdain and clapped her hands, after which Braenn entered. She carried a large silver goblet with both hands. The medallion against Geralt's chest began to vibrate rhythmically as it perceived the great amount of magical power gathered in that goblet.
—And what do you say to this? —the silver-haired dryad repeated, rising to her feet—. She does not want to stay in Brokilon! She does not want to become a dryad! She does not want to take Morénn's place, she wants to leave, to follow her destiny! Is that so, Child of the Elder Blood? Is that exactly what you want?
Ciri nodded with her head bowed. Her shoulders trembled.
Geralt was already tired of this whole situation.
—Why are you torturing her, Eithné? Soon you will give her the Water of Brokilon, and what she desires will cease to matter. Why are you doing this? And why are you doing it in front of me?
—I want to show you what destiny is.
—No, Eithné —Geralt retorted, rising—. Forgive me for spoiling your demonstration, but I do not intend to stay and watch. You have gone too far, Lady of Brokilon, wanting to mark the border that separates us. You of the Elder Folk love to repeat that hatred is not for you, that it is an exclusively human sentiment. But that is not true. You know what hatred is, and you are perfectly capable of hating. You just show it in a somewhat different way. But perhaps that makes it even more cruel.
Eithné continued to look at him coldly, not replying to his words.
—I accept your hatred, Eithné, on behalf of all humans. We deserve it. I am sorry about Morénn.
The dryad did not respond.
—So this is Brokilon's answer that I must take to Venzlav of Brugge: a warning and a challenge. Proof that in this forest dwell hatred and Power, capable of erasing a human girl's memory with the hand of another who had already been taken from her. And you want me to be the one to deliver it? A witcher who has come to love those two girls and carries the guilt of your daughter's death? Very well, Eithné. Venzlav will hear your answer in my voice and read it in my eyes. But I do not intend to stay and witness what is about to happen here.
Geralt knelt and embraced the girl.
—Goodbye, Ciri.
Ciri's arms trembled violently.
The witcher stood up.
—Goodbye, Braenn —Geralt said, turning to the young dryad—. Take care of yourself, and good health. And one more thing…
—Yes, Gwynbleidd?
Braenn raised her head, and in her blue eyes something moist glistened.
—It is easy to kill with a bow, girl. Very easy to release the string and think: it wasn't me, it was the arrow. In my hands there is no blood from that boy. The arrow killed him, not me. But the arrow dreams nothing at night. I hope you too dream nothing at night, blue-eyed dryad. Goodbye, Braenn.
—Mona…
Braenn's voice was almost unintelligible. The goblet she held with both hands trembled, and the liquid that filled it to the brim rippled in small waves.
—What?
—Mona! —she gasped—. My name is Mona! Lady Eithné! I…
—Enough! —Eithné's voice fell like a blade—. Enough. Control yourself, Braenn.
Geralt gave a dry smile.
—There you have your destiny, Lady of the Forest. I respect your resilience and your struggle. But I know that soon you will fight alone. Despite everything, I wish you luck, Eithné. Goodbye.
—Geralt…
Ciri's voice was barely a whisper. She remained seated, motionless, her head bowed and her fists clenched on her knees.
—Don't leave me… alone…
—White Wolf —Eithné said, embracing the girl's hunched back—. Did you have to wait for her to ask you not to leave her? To stay with her until the end? Why do you want to leave now? Leave her alone? What are you running from, Gwynbleidd? From whom?
Ciri lowered her head even further. But she did not break into tears.
—Until the end.
The witcher sighed deeply and nodded toward the girl.
—Alright, Ciri. You will not be alone. I will stay with you. Do not be afraid.