Before long they emerged onto clearer land, riding along the trough of a stream which barely trickled
along the ravine bed. The magician looked around carefully, finally finding what she was looking for.
Over the gully, supported horizontally by enormous boulders, lay a mighty tree trunk, dark, bare and
turning green with moss. Triss rode closer, wanting to make sure this was, indeed, the Trail and not a tree
accidentally felled in a gale. But she spied a narrow, indistinct pathway disappearing into the woods. She
could not be mistaken - this was definitely the Trail, a path encircling the old castle of Kaer Morhen and
beset with obstacles, where witchers trained to improve their running speeds and controlled breathing.
The path was known as the Trail, but Triss knew young witchers had given it their own name: The Killer.
She clung to the horse's neck and slowly rode under the trunk. At that moment, she heard stones grating.
And the fast, light footsteps of someone running.
She turned in her saddle, pulled on the reins and waited for the witcher to run out onto the log.
A witcher did run out onto the log, flitted along it like an arrow without slowing down, without even using
his arms to aid his balance - running nimbly, fluently, with incredible grace. He flashed by, approaching
and disappearing amongst the trees without disturbing a single branch. Triss sighed loudly, shaking her
head in disbelief.
Because the witcher, judging by his height and build, was only about twelve.
The magician eased the reins, nudged the horse with her heels and trotted upstream. She knew the Trail
cut across the ravine once more, at a spot known as the Gullet. She wanted to catch a
glimpse of the little witcher once again - children had not been trained in Kaer Morhen for near to a
quarter of a century.
She was not in a great hurry. The narrow Killer path meandered and looped its way through the forest
and, in order to master it, the little witcher would take far longer than she would, following the shortcut.
However, she could not loiter either. Beyond the Gullet, the Trail turned into the woods and led straight
to the fortress. If she did not catch the boy at the precipice, she might not see him at all. She had already
visited Kaer Morhen a few times, and knew she saw only what the witchers wanted her to see. Triss was
not so naive as to be unaware that they wanted to show her only a tiny fraction of the things to be seen in
Kaer Morhen.
After a few minutes riding along the stony trough of the stream she caught sight of the Gullet - a leap over
the gully created by two huge mossy rocks, overgrown with gnarled, stunted trees. She released the
reins. The horse snorted and lowered its head towards the water trickling between pebbles.
She did not have to wait long. The witcher's silhouette appeared on the rock and the boy jumped, not
slowing his pace. The magician heard the soft smack of his landing and a moment later a rattle of stones,
the dull thud of a fall and a quiet cry. Or rather, a squeal.
Triss instantly leaped from her saddle, threw the fur off her shoulders and dashed across the
mountainside, pulling herself up using tree branches and roots. Momentum aided her climb until she
slipped on the conifer needles and fell to her knees next to a figure huddled on the stones. The youngster,
on seeing her, jumped up like a spring, backed away in a flash and nimbly grabbed the sword slung
across his back - then tripped and collapsed between the junipers and pines. The magician did not rise
from her knees; she stared at the boy and opened her mouth in surprise.
Because it was not a boy.
From beneath an ash-blonde fringe, poorly and unevenly cut, enormous emerald eyes - the predominant
features in a small face with a narrow chin and upturned nose - stared out at her. There was fear in the
eyes.
'Don't be afraid,' Triss said tentatively.
The girl opened her eyes even wider. She was hardly out of breath and did not appear to be sweating. It
was clear she had already run the Killer more than once.
'Nothing's happened to you?'
The girl did not reply; instead she sprang up, hissed with pain, shifted her weight to her left leg, bent over
and rubbed her knee. She was dressed in a sort of leather suit sewn together — or rather stuck together
— in a way which would make any tailor who took pride in his craft howl in horror and despair. The only
pieces of her equipment which seemed to be relatively new, and fitted her, were her knee-high boots, her
belts and her sword. More precisely, her little sword.
'Don't be afraid,' repeated Triss, still not rising from her knees. 'I heard your fall and was scared, that's
why I rushed here—'
'I slipped,' murmured the girl.
'Have you hurt yourself?'
'No. You?'
The enchantress laughed, tried to get up, winced and swore at the pain in her ankle. She sat down and
carefully straightened her foot, swearing once more.
'Come here, little one, help me get up.'
'I'm not little.'
'If you say so. In that case, what are you?'
'A witcher!'
'Ha! So, come here and help me get up, witcher.'
The girl did not move from the spot. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and her hands, in their
fingerless, woollen gloves, toyed with her sword belt as she glanced suspiciously at Triss.
'Have no fear,' said the enchantress with a smile. 'I'm not a bandit or outsider. I'm called Triss Merigold
and I'm going to Kaer Morhen. The witchers know me. Don't gape at me. I respect your suspicion, but
be reasonable. Would I have got this far if I hadn't known the way? Have you ever met a human on the
Trail?'
The girl overcame her hesitation, approached and stretched out her hand. Triss stood with only a little
assistance. Because she was
not concerned with having help. She wanted a closer look at the girl. And to touch her.
The green eyes of the little witcher-girl betrayed no signs of mutation, and the touch of her little hand did
not produce the slight, pleasant tingling sensation so characteristic of witchers. Although she ran the Killer
path with a sword slung across her back, the ashen-haired girl had not been subjected to the Trial of
Grasses or to Changes. Of that, Triss was certain.
'Show me your knee, little one.'
'I'm not little.'
'Sorry. But surely you have a name?'
'I do. I'm . . . Ciri.'