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Ciri wakes up with a scream, sweaty and shivering under her blankets, her heart filled with terror. She blinks and looks around wildly, raising her hand to her cheek. No, it's not Unicorn. There is no blood, no deep gash in her face cut by Skellen's orion. She is lying on a bed of soft grass and moss in a copse of young birch trees, their autumn-yellow leaves dancing in the light of the morning sun. Kelpie is there, nibbling on the still green grass and herbs growing by the bubbling brooklet nearby, her shiny black fur a stark contrast to the white of the trees' bark.
She takes a deep, steadying breath. The ugly scar on her cheek hurts.
Funny how the mind can play tricks on a person. It has been years that she was wounded and almost died, but every year on the autumn equinox, she feels it again, the pain in her face, the nightmares, the terror in her heart. But they are all dead, the monsters of her past. She killed Leo Bonhart with her own sword, and Skellen, she heard, was cruelly executed, as he deserved. No longer is she Princess Cirilla, but the Witcher Ciri of Rivia and Vengerberg. The past is the past. It is a bright day, and she has plans.
Quickly, Ciri washes in the little stream. The water is cold, but clear and refreshing after the horrible dream. Kelpie nuzzles her hair affectionately.
"Yes, I love you too," Ciri, the Witcher girl says, planting a kiss on the mare's soft nostrils. She shares an apple with her beloved black horse that, in the village of Unicorn, had cleared an impossible seven foot gate while her rider's blood was soaking her mane and dripping down her neck. On Velen, the autumnal equinox, 1267, Kelpie had carried her through time and space and to the Pereplut swamps, to Vysogota of Corvo, to safety. Now she will carry her to Kaer Morhen for the winter.
But first, there is one last contract to fulfill.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Picturesquely, the little village lies by the white banks of the Gwenllech River, surrounded by fields dotted with sheafs of grain that are drying in the autumn sun. From a little hillock, Ciri can observe peasants cutting the last rye with their scythes. Others are bringing in the harvest on wagons and carts. A light breeze carries the faint sound of men, women and children singing harvest songs while they are working in the fields. Nothing hints at anything dark or tragic going on in this place. However, from experience, Ciri knows that first impressions can be delusive. They would not have put up posters asking for a Witcher's help if everything was as quiet and peaceful as it appears.
The alderman gapes at Ciri in utter surprise when she introduces herself as a witcher.
"You put up those posters, didn't you? So, here I am, two swords and all." Ciri plants her feet firmly on the ground and crosses her arms over her chest, scowling at the elderly man defiantly. She should be used to this kind of reaction by now, but it still raises her hackles every time. "What can you tell me about that monster of yours? And what's in it for me?"
"I— I had no idea young girls can be witchers, no idea at all," the man stutters. "I apologize. We do need a witcher, and dearly so. We'll pay you handsomely if you free us from the beast. It dwells in the crypt of the old manor outside the village and appears on full moon nights. The monster killed the lord and lady of the manor, and several of their servants. Shredded parts of their clothes and gnawed off bones was all that was left of them. Their daughter has disappeared without a trace. Now we live in fear every full moon night that the terrible beast will ravage our village. It has already devoured the shepherd while he was out with his herd at night, and the old fisher woman living alone by the river. And tonight we have our harvest feast, but it's a full moon night ..." The alderman trails off, his voice shaking.
"Has anybody seen the monster and lived?" Ciri inquires coolly.
"Just the village drunk. He says it's as huge as a giant, strong like ten oxen and fast as lightning. A foul stench surrounds it, and it rips its victims apart with fingers that end in terrible claws. He also claims it has long, red hair and breasts. But he probably dreamt up that part."
"It could be a striga," Ciri says. "They're vicious beasts, and always female. How old was the daughter of the lord and lady, the one that disappeared?"
"Sixteen. Very pretty, a lovely girl, liked by everyone in the village. Poor thing." The alderman sighs. "The baron's son wanted to marry her on this very day. A love match. The baron was against it, but his son insisted. Now he's heartbroken. And has to wed the daughter of a rich count instead."
"Thank you, alderman. I think I know what I need to know now," Ciri grinds through gritted teeth, suppressing the sudden seething anger that is welling up inside of her. It is neither the alderman's nor the villagers' fault. If she is honest, it is not really fair that they will have to pay for her services although the existence of the monster is clearly the baron's crime. But a witcher has to eat, too. She removes a leather bag from her belt. "My price is this one half full with ducats now as advance payment. When I've rid you of the beast, you'll fill it to the brim."
The alderman barely blinks his eye. It is a small bag. He had expected a witcher to demand a much higher sum for a deadly beast like the one haunting the manor.
"You're invited to the feast, too, if you'd like to stay the night, after the deed is done," he says while filling her purse. "You can have a free room and food and drink at our tavern on top of the ducats." He smiles at Ciri almost a bit shyly. Obviously, she has left an impression on the man, even though she has not done a thing yet. Ciri smiles back at him. It is not often that a witcher is offered some extras in addition to the pay.
"Thank you, but I won't be back before dawn." She takes the little bag and attaches it to her belt again. It is already as full as it can get. "Can you point me in the direction of the manor? I need to check out the location before night falls."
"Just ride straight through the village and then along the river for a few minutes until you reach the edge of the forest. You can't miss it." The alderman rises from the chair behind his desk. "Good luck, Mylady Witcher. May the gods be with you."
"And with you. See you in the morning." Ciri smiles at the alderman again, then she confidently crosses the room. Strigas are not easy to fight, not even for an expert monster slayer, and especially not when you do not intend to kill them. But she can do it, she is certain of it.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The manor is not far and not hard to find indeed. While Ciri is riding toward it along the river, people dart curious glances at her and her beautiful black steed, but nobody says a word. Despite the two swords on her back and her leather armour, they probably do not suspect that she is the witcher they have been waiting for. Maybe it is a good thing, too. Thus nobody follows her to watch the spectacle.
The main door of the manor house is locked and bolted. Perhaps the villagers' attempt to keep the monster inside? However, several windows on the back of the building are broken and it is easy as pie for Ciri to climb in. Inside the house, total chaos reigns. The furniture is broken, the curtains and tapestries ripped apart, paintings torn down, and the walls are smeared with what must be lots and lots of dried blood. The floor is littered with shattered vases, glasses, mirrors and other debris, the shards of glass making crunching noises under the soles of her boots as Ciri walks through the devastation. It must have been a nice home, not huge, pompous and extravagant as the mansions of many rich merchants, counts, barons and higher nobility, but cosy and tasteful. Now it is all gone.
After she has explored the house, Ciri climbs out again and strolls through the overgrown garden. It is humming with insects that are collecting the very last nectar before the approach of winter. The old trees are laden with apples and pears ripe for the harvest. She picks one apple for herself and one for Kelpie, then walks on to find the crypt.
She does not have to search for long. The family's crypt is located on the edge of the garden, separated from the forest by a high wall. It looks ancient, much older than the manor house itself. The grey, lichen- and moss-covered stone is crumbling, the coat of arms above the door so weathered that it is barely visible. The arm-thick vines of ivy and the large amounts of late-blooming wild roses growing all over the small structure seem to be what keeps it from disintegrating. The wooden door is damaged beyond recognition. The smell of dust and mold wafts toward Ciri from the gaping opening.
She steps into the semi-darkness.
There is still plenty of time before nightfall.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Slowly, the moon rises over the glittering river. Full and round. And with it, the creature rises. With a grinding sound, stone on stone, the heavy lid of her sarcophagus slides to the side. The horrible monster's head appears in the darkness of the crypt, then her inhuman, foul body as she emerges from her lair. Agitatedly, she sniffs through gaping nostrils. Somebody was here, in her crypt. The lingering scent of a human, the faint aroma of blood, but with an unusual, spicy tinge to it. Saliva collects in the creature's lipless mouth. The smell is delicious, irresistible. Swift as a monkey, she leaps from the sarcophagus and up the moist stairs toward the exit.
The scent of human blood grows stronger and stronger.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Wiping her mouth on her sleeve after having downed her witcher potions, Ciri waits for their effect to set in. She does not need to wait for long. Soon, a prickling feeling begins to course through her veins, her vision and auditory senses become more acute and the odours around her grow stronger. One scent in particular catches her attention. A vile mixture of blood and guts and decay. It is growing more intense by the minute. The striga. She is coming.
Ciri draws her silver sword and listens into the darkness of the manor's great hall. It cannot be long now and the monster, following the trail of blood, will be upon her. Her plan seems to work splendidly, at least so far. The cut in her arm that she inflicted upon herself to lure the beast into the house has already stopped bleeding.
Silver moonlight spills through the wide open main door. Ciri takes a deep, steadying breath. The vile smell of the approaching monster is almost unbearable. Any minute now and the cursed creature will be here.
Then, the foul monster appears in the entrance. The striga rises on her hind legs and sniffs the air, her well-muscled silhouette blotting out the moon beams. Ciri clutches the hilt of her sword more tightly.
The striga growls low and menacingly, then she charges at the ashen-haired human waiting at the base of the stairs. One enormous leap is enough for monster to cross half of the hall. Suddenly, instead of closing the distance between her and her prey with another leap, the vile creature freezes, glaring at the girl with hate-filled eyes as the floor around her begins to glow and burst into flame. A circle of magic. Impenetrable, suffocating. The striga hisses viciously and slashes at the dancing, magical flames with cruel claws capable of tearing a man to shreds within seconds. Her breasts and red hair are the sole reminders that the striga is, in fact, a young girl possessed by an evil curse.
A satisfied grin spreads on Ciri's face despite the terrifying sight. There is no way for the monster to escape. No other witcher casts Yrden like she does. The perks of being both an elder blood princess-sorceress and a witcher. It is almost too easy. Even if the striga got out of this circle, she has drawn Yrden all over the hall's floor and only needs to activate the signs with her magic. If necessary, she could turn the whole hall into a burning field of fiery, purplish-blue circles. However, it will take a lot of effort to sustain the magical sign until sunrise. She better save her strength as much as she can. Not taking her eyes off the furious beast, Ciri sits down on the stairs. With the help of the potions and her chaos, she knows that she can do it. Keeping the striga trapped in the magical circle, although straining, will be much more comfortable than having to hide inside the monster's sarcophagus all night long, like Geralt did with his striga many years ago - his striga who is Adda the White, Queen of Temeria today.
It will be a long, long night though. And, fuck, she did not think of bringing anything to eat, or a book to pass the time. So, while closely watching the striga and keeping her chaos flowing, Ciri begins to sing instead. Every song of Jaskier, the famous bard and her beloved uncle, that she can remember.
Funnily, the longer she sings, the less agitated does the Striga appear to become. The hissing and growling grows softer and more infrequent and finally, the beast lies down inside the circle of flames, her eyes close and she falls asleep, curled up like an overgrown, particularly ugly, hairless cat.
Ciri continues singing all night, with just a few short breaks to take a swallow of water from her canteen or to drink more of her witcher potions. Slowly she feels her powers drain and her stomach begins to rumble with hunger. She gazes out the main door. The sky is already growing lighter. Dawn cannot be far. The striga is still sleeping peacefully, her enormous silhouette outlined in the flickering flames of the magical trap.
Suddenly, another silhouette appears in the doorframe, tall, broad and black against the fading light of the full moon. Ciri jumps to her feet, raising her silver sword defensively.
"Nice job, Witcher girl!" a voice booms through the silence of the hall.
"Uncle Lambert!" Ciri drops her weapon and, a big smile on her face, runs toward her fellow witcher, who catches her in his strong arms and spins her around like a humming top.
"Watch out! The striga!" another familiar voice warns. Instantly, Lambert lets go of the girl and draws his witcher sword. The monster has risen to her feet, the purple magical flames burning dangerously low. But Ciri has already thrown out her arm, forming Igni. With an audible whoosh, the flames flicker high into the air. The striga hisses and recoils, baring her teeth.
"Uncle Coën!" Ciri grins at Lambert's pockmarked companion, who strides up to her and gives her a hug.
"You look tired, Ciri. Can we help?" Coën asks with a worried frown, taking in the dark rings under her emerald eyes.
"Nah, it's almost morning. Too late, you two slackers, as always," Ciri teases, then she yawns. "But I'm dastardly hungry. I could eat an entire pig on a spit!"
"Sorry, no pigs on spits here. But this might help." Lambert reaches for a metal flask fastened to his belt and holds it out to Ciri. "Always revives my spirits when I'm whacked."
Ciri sniffs at the liquid in the flask. Alcohol, of course, and from the smell of it, it must be pretty strong stuff. Cautiously, she takes a swallow. The cask strength whiskey burns down her gullet like white-hot flames. Ciri gasps, tears springing to her eyes.
Lambert laughs, clapping his thighs. "Awake now, whelp?" he asks mockingly when he has finally stopped sniggering.
"You just wait," Ciri manages to choke out, still gasping for air. However, a nice warmth begins to spread through her belly and she does feel revived.
"It's called Dragon's Breath, in case you were wondering." Lambert winks at her. "So, who's that striga?" he then asks, having a closer look at the snarling beast. "Any ideas?"
Ciri nods, clearing her throat. Then she tells her two fellow witchers what she knows.
"Damn that baron," Coën curses when Ciri has finished the tale. "I've a good mind to pay that scumbag a visit. What do you say, Lambchops?"
"Can't wait to make the bloody arsehole pay," Lambert grinds through gritted teeth, his eyes glinting with fury. "How is it that it's always the humans who're the worst monsters?"
Neither Ciri nor Coën have an answer to that. The striga snarls and claws at the flames. Ciri begins to sing again.
"Wow, I'll be damned! Have you ever seen anything like that, brother?" Lambert gapes when the striga almost immediately calms and becomes sleepy once again. Peacefully, she settles on the floor, lying down with a yawn. "What kind of spell is that?"
Ciri shrugs her shoulders. "It's not magic. Maybe she loved music when she was human?"
The striga blinks up at her with a low growl.
"Looks like she doesn't want you to stop," Coën says with a grin, and Ciri takes up her song again.
For the remaining rest of the night, she sits side by side with her companions on the stairs, her voice sounding sweet and clear throughout the manor's hall. The magical flames cast the surroundings in a bluish light. It is almost cozy.
Finally, the first rays of morning light seep though the windows into the building. The striga writhes and howls for a moment as if in terrible agony. Her features shift and change violently. Then she lies still inside the Yrden circle. A young girl, naked and dirty and shivering. She stares at the three witchers from big, terrified eyes.
"Keep singing, Ciri," Lambert says under his breath, slowly rising to his feet.
"Careful, brother," Coën warns. Geralt's striga had almost ripped the Witcher's throat out even after she had transformed. If not for Triss' swift help, he would have died that day many years ago.
"Careful's my second name," Lambert murmurs and steps inside the magical trap.
The former striga flinches back a little, but does not attack. Cautiously, Lambert puts his heavy travel cloak around the girl's shoulders. She stares up at him, frightened and utterly confused.
"Here, have something to drink," he says, hunkering down next to her and holding out his canteen with water. Hesitantly, she takes a swallow, her wide eyes fixated on the scary-looking stranger.
"That's it, girl. Don't be afraid. We'll find you help in the village. Will you let me carry you to our horses?"
The girl gives a barely noticeable nod. Lambert wraps the cloak firmly around her, gathers her in his strong arms and lifts her up in a bridal carry. She reeks of rancid sweat and blood, but Lambert has smelled worse. It is hardly her fault anyway.
When the three witchers ride into the village, the girl with wild ginger hair huddled up to her nose in Lambert's black cloak and pressed to his chest, the villagers are just waking up. Ciri dismounts in front of the alderman's house and knocks. It takes a few minutes for the man to open the door, still in his nightgown. His eyes grow as wide as dishes on seeing the red-headed girl.
"Melinda!" he exclaims, "Holy Melitele, you found her! Magda, Magda, come quick!" A plump, friendly-looking, woman appears in the door behind her husband. For a brief moment, she gapes at the witchers and their charge. Then she springs into action.
"Come in, come in," she urges. "The girl needs a bath, and you must be hungry. Be our guests, our maid is just making breakfast. Don't worry, Henry, the stable boy, will take good care of your horses."
Ciri's mouth begins to water at the delicious scent wafting over from the kitchen. She pats Kelpie's nose, then, together with Lambert and Coën, follows the woman into the house. Still in shock, the traumatised Melinda does not want to let go of Lambert at first, but when the bathtub in the bedroom he has carried her to is filled with warm, scented water, she finally loosens her grip on his shirt and he and the alderman's wife help her into the tub. In the care of Magda and another maid, she finally seems to relax.
Soon, the three witchers and the alderman are sitting around a big dining table loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon, dark farmer's bread, cheese, sausages and, much to Ciri's delight, freshly baked blueberry pancakes.
"And poor Melinda was the striga who killed all those people, and her own parents?" the alderman asks, aghast, when his guests recount what happened. "But - but she must never know that, nobody must. What can I tell the poor, poor girl?"
"Say it was a werewolf, not a striga," Ciri proposes, helping herself to another pancake, "and that she was his captive. We killed the monster and freed the girl. Nobody'll be the wiser."
The alderman nods thoughtfully. He hates to lie, but in this case, it seems to be the lesser evil. "We'll take good care of her, I promise," he adds. "We're forever grateful to you, brave witchers."
"We didn't do much, it was all Ciri," Coën says, pride in his voice. He still remembers the days when Ciri arrived at Kaer Morhen with Geralt and her first attempts on the killer, falling and failing again and again, but never giving up. Now she is one of them, the youngest and first girl wolf, but already as good with a sword and signs as any of them. Maybe even better.
"And I thought you were joking about being a witcher at first. My sincerest apologies, Lady Witcher." The alderman bows to Ciri.
"Apologies don't fill a hungry belly," Ciri says sagely, her lips and chin blue with blueberry juice. "You could pack me a bundle of pancakes instead, as provisions for the way."
"A splendid idea, it shall be done." The alderman smiles, then he disappears in the kitchen to talk to the maid.
Not much later, the alderman and his wife wave them goodbye. A big bundle dangles from Ciri's saddle. It smells deliciously of pancakes and blueberries.
Side by side, the three witchers ride through the village, their horses fed and their own bellies nicely filled. A few peasants gaze after them, a mix of fear and awe in their eyes, but they say nothing. The birds are singing and the cloudless sky promises yet another beautiful autumn day. Gone is the night of the equinox, and forgotten Ciri's nightmare, at least for another year. Hopefully, Melinda will, one day, forget her nightmare, too.
On the hill outside the village, they part ways.
"Don't get killed," Ciri says, giving both Lambert and Coën a big hug.
"That bastard baron won't know what hit him," Coën growls. "See you soon, in Kaer Morhen."
"And don't you dare get into my secret stash of Dragon's Breath," Lambert says with a wink. Then the two gallop off.
Waving one last time, Ciri spurs her horse.
The water of the Gwenllech sparkles in the morning sun as the river winds its way through the valley and towards the Blue Mountains. Towards home.