‘What did he do to me? What happened? What did he… do to me?’
‘The knight… The black knight with feathers on his helmet… I can't remember anything. He shouted… and looked at me. I can't remember what happened. Only that I was frightened… I was so frightened…’
The man leaned over her, the flame of the campfire sparkling in his eyes. They were strange eyes. Very strange. Ciri had been frightened of them, she hadn't liked meeting his gaze. But that had been a long time ago. A very long time ago.
‘I can't remember anything,’ she whispered, searching for his hand, as tough and coarse as raw wood. ‘The black knight…’
‘It was a dream. Sleep peacefully. It won't come back.’
Ciri had heard such reassurances in the past. They had been repeated to her endlessly; many, many times she had been offered comforting words when her screams had woken her during the night. But this time it was different. Now she believed it. Because it was Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, the Witcher, who said it. The man who was her destiny. The one for whom she was destined. Geralt the Witcher, who had found her surrounded by war, death and despair, who had taken her with him and promised they would never part.
She fell asleep holding tight to his hand.