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followed. They jumped off the ruined stairs and, lowering their heads, walked beneath the
untouched arch of the arcade, half buried beneath a mound of earth. The witcher stopped and
indicated with his hand. Ciri sighed loudly.
From rubble colourful with smashed terracotta grew an enormous rose bush covered with
beautiful white-lilied flowers. Drops of dew as bright as silver glistened on the petals. The
bush wove its shoots
around a large slab of white stone and from it a sad, pretty face looked out at them; the
downpours and snows had not yet managed to blur or wash away its delicate and noble
features. It was a face which the chisels of plunderers digging out golden ornaments, mosaics
and precious stones from the relief sculpture had not managed to disfigure.
'Aelirenn,' said Geralt after a long silence.
'She's beautiful,' whispered Ciri, grabbing him by the hand. The witcher didn't seem to notice.
He stared at the sculpture and was far away, far away in a different world and time.
'Aelirenn,' he repeated after a while. 'Known as Elirena by dwarves and humans. She led them
into battle two hundred years ago. The elders of the elves were against it, they knew they had
no chance. That they would not be able to pick themselves up after the defeat. They wanted to
save their people, wanted to survive. They decided to destroy their towns and retreat to the
inaccessible, wild mountains . . . and to wait. Elves live a long time, Ciri. By our time scale
they are almost eternal. They thought humans were something that would pass, like a drought,
like a heavy winter, or a plague of locust, after which comes rain, spring, a new harvest. They
wanted to sit it out. Survive. They decided to destroy their towns and palaces, amongst them
their pride - the beautiful Shaerrawedd. They wanted to weather out the storm but Elirena . . .
Elirena stirred up the young. They took up arms and followed her into their last desperate
battle. And they were massacred. Mercilessly massacred.'
Ciri did not say anything, staring at the beautiful, still face.
'They died with her name on their lips,' the witcher continued quietly. 'Repeating her
challenge, her cry, they died for Shaerrawedd. Because Shaerrawedd was a symbol. They died
for this stone and marble . . . and for Aelirenn. Just as she promised them, they died with
dignity, heroically and honourably. They saved their honour but they brought nothing but ruin
as a result, condemned their own race to annihilation. Their own people. You remember what
Yarpen told you? Those who rule the world and those who die out? He explained it to you
coarsely but truly. Elves
live for a long time, but only their youngsters are fertile, only the young can have offspring.
And practically all the elven youngsters had followed Elirena. They followed Aelirenn, the
White Rose of Shaerrawedd. We are standing in the ruins of her palace, by the fountain whose
waters she listened to in the evenings. And these . . . these were her flowers.'
Ciri was silent. Geralt drew her to himself, put his arm around her.
'Do you know now why the Scoia'tael were here, do you see what they wanted to look at?
And do you understand why the elven and dwarven young must not be allowed to be
massacred once again? Do you understand why neither you nor I are permitted to have a hand
in this massacre? These roses flower all year round. They ought to have grown wild by now,
but they are more beautiful than any rose in a tended garden. Elves continue to come to
Shaerrawedd, Ciri. A variety of elves. The impetuous and the foolish ones for whom the
cracked stone is a symbol as well as the sensible ones for whom these immortal, forever
reborn flowers are a symbol. Elves who understand that if this bush is torn from the ground
and the earth burned out, the roses of Shaerrawedd will never flower again. Do you
understand?'
She nodded.
'Do you understand what this neutrality is, which stirs you so? To be neutral does not mean to
be indifferent or insensitive. You don't have to kill your feelings. It's enough to kill hatred
within yourself. Do you understand?'
'Yes,' she whispered. 'I understand. Geralt, I ... I'd like to take one . . . One of these roses. To
remind me. May I?'
'Do,' he said after some hesitation. 'Do, in order to remember. Let's go now. Let's return to the
convoy.'
Ciri pinned the rose under the lacing of her jerkin. Suddenly she cried out quietly, lifted her
hand. A trickle of blood ran from her linger down her palm.
'Did you prick yourself?'
'Yarpen . . .' whispered the girl, looking at the blood filling her life-line. 'Wenck . . . Paulie . .
.'
'What?'
'Triss!' she shouted with a piercing voice which was not hers, shuddered fiercely and wiped
her face with her arm. 'Quick, Geralt! We've got to help! To the horses, Geralt!'
'Ciri! What's happening?'
'They're dying!'
She galloped with her ear almost touching the horse's neck and spurred her mount on, kicking
with her heels and shouting. The sand of the forest path flew beneath the hooves. She heard [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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followed. They jumped off the ruined stairs and, lowering their heads, walked beneath the
untouched arch of the arcade, half buried beneath a mound of earth. The witcher stopped and
indicated with his hand. Ciri sighed loudly.
From rubble colourful with smashed terracotta grew an enormous rose bush covered with
beautiful white-lilied flowers. Drops of dew as bright as silver glistened on the petals. The
bush wove its shoots
around a large slab of white stone and from it a sad, pretty face looked out at them; the
downpours and snows had not yet managed to blur or wash away its delicate and noble
features. It was a face which the chisels of plunderers digging out golden ornaments, mosaics
and precious stones from the relief sculpture had not managed to disfigure.
'Aelirenn,' said Geralt after a long silence.
'She's beautiful,' whispered Ciri, grabbing him by the hand. The witcher didn't seem to notice.
He stared at the sculpture and was far away, far away in a different world and time.
'Aelirenn,' he repeated after a while. 'Known as Elirena by dwarves and humans. She led them
into battle two hundred years ago. The elders of the elves were against it, they knew they had
no chance. That they would not be able to pick themselves up after the defeat. They wanted to
save their people, wanted to survive. They decided to destroy their towns and retreat to the
inaccessible, wild mountains . . . and to wait. Elves live a long time, Ciri. By our time scale
they are almost eternal. They thought humans were something that would pass, like a drought,
like a heavy winter, or a plague of locust, after which comes rain, spring, a new harvest. They
wanted to sit it out. Survive. They decided to destroy their towns and palaces, amongst them
their pride - the beautiful Shaerrawedd. They wanted to weather out the storm but Elirena . . .
Elirena stirred up the young. They took up arms and followed her into their last desperate
battle. And they were massacred. Mercilessly massacred.'
Ciri did not say anything, staring at the beautiful, still face.
'They died with her name on their lips,' the witcher continued quietly. 'Repeating her
challenge, her cry, they died for Shaerrawedd. Because Shaerrawedd was a symbol. They died
for this stone and marble . . . and for Aelirenn. Just as she promised them, they died with
dignity, heroically and honourably. They saved their honour but they brought nothing but ruin
as a result, condemned their own race to annihilation. Their own people. You remember what
Yarpen told you? Those who rule the world and those who die out? He explained it to you
coarsely but truly. Elves
live for a long time, but only their youngsters are fertile, only the young can have offspring.
And practically all the elven youngsters had followed Elirena. They followed Aelirenn, the
White Rose of Shaerrawedd. We are standing in the ruins of her palace, by the fountain whose
waters she listened to in the evenings. And these . . . these were her flowers.'
Ciri was silent. Geralt drew her to himself, put his arm around her.
'Do you know now why the Scoia'tael were here, do you see what they wanted to look at?
And do you understand why the elven and dwarven young must not be allowed to be
massacred once again? Do you understand why neither you nor I are permitted to have a hand
in this massacre? These roses flower all year round. They ought to have grown wild by now,
but they are more beautiful than any rose in a tended garden. Elves continue to come to
Shaerrawedd, Ciri. A variety of elves. The impetuous and the foolish ones for whom the
cracked stone is a symbol as well as the sensible ones for whom these immortal, forever
reborn flowers are a symbol. Elves who understand that if this bush is torn from the ground
and the earth burned out, the roses of Shaerrawedd will never flower again. Do you
understand?'
She nodded.
'Do you understand what this neutrality is, which stirs you so? To be neutral does not mean to
be indifferent or insensitive. You don't have to kill your feelings. It's enough to kill hatred
within yourself. Do you understand?'
'Yes,' she whispered. 'I understand. Geralt, I ... I'd like to take one . . . One of these roses. To
remind me. May I?'
'Do,' he said after some hesitation. 'Do, in order to remember. Let's go now. Let's return to the
convoy.'
Ciri pinned the rose under the lacing of her jerkin. Suddenly she cried out quietly, lifted her
hand. A trickle of blood ran from her linger down her palm.
'Did you prick yourself?'
'Yarpen . . .' whispered the girl, looking at the blood filling her life-line. 'Wenck . . . Paulie . .
.'
'What?'
'Triss!' she shouted with a piercing voice which was not hers, shuddered fiercely and wiped
her face with her arm. 'Quick, Geralt! We've got to help! To the horses, Geralt!'
'Ciri! What's happening?'
'They're dying!'
She galloped with her ear almost touching the horse's neck and spurred her mount on, kicking
with her heels and shouting. The sand of the forest path flew beneath the hooves. She heard [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]