THE LADY OF THE LAKE Andrzej Sapkowski http://en.thewitcher.com/forum/ They kept riding until they came to a large, beautiful lake full of crystal clear water, and in the middle of the lake, Arthur saw an arm clothed in white cloth holding a beautiful sword. ‘Behold, there is the sword of which I spoke,’ pointed Merlin. Suddenly they saw a girl walking on the surface of the lake. ‘Who is that girl?’ asked Arthur. ‘That is the Lady of the Lake,’ said Merlin. Sir Thomas Malory Le Morte Darthur Chapter One The lake was enchanted. About that there could be no doubt. Firstly: it lay beside the mouth of the enchanted valley Cwm Pwcca, the mysterious valley perpetually shrouded by fog and famed for its magical properties and phenomena. Secondly: one look was enough. The surface of the water was a deep blue like a polished sapphire and smooth as a mirror. So much so that the peaks of the mountain Y Wyddfa that were reflected in it were more beautiful than those that loomed over the lake. From the water blew a refreshing coolness and the dignified silence was disturbed by nothing, not even the splashing of fish or the cries of a bird. The knight shook off the impression. But rather than continue riding along the crest of the hill, he led his horse down to the lake. As if drawn by the magnetic force of a spell that slumbered there, deep down in the dark waters. The horse stepped timidly among the broken rocks, giving a snort indicating that he sensed the magical aura of the place. Upon reaching the bank the knight dismounted. He took the stallion’s bridle and led him to where small waves disappeared among the coloured pebbles. His armour rattled when he knelt. Startling fry and fish as vivid as tiny needles, he scooped water into his hands. He drank slowly and cautiously, the ice cold water numbed his tongue and lips and hurt his teeth. When he bent down to collect water a second time a sound travelled over the surface of the lake. He raised his head. The horse whinnied, confirming that he also heard it. He listened. No, it was not an illusion. What he heard was singing. A woman singing. Or rather a girl. Like all knights he had been raised with bard tales of chivalry. In these tales a girl singing or calling was in nine cases out of ten, a lure. The knight who followed inevitably fell into an ambush. Often fatal. But curiosity won out. The knight was only nineteen years old. He was very courageous and very foolish. He was famous for one and known for the other. He checked that his sword was in its sheath, then led his horse and set off up the beach in the direction of the singing. He did not have to go far. The shore was strewn with huge boulders, dark and polished to a bright shine, giant toys carelessly tossed here and forgotten about after completing the game. Some of the boulders were lying in the water of the lake, under the dark surface. Some rose above the surface and were licked by small waves, giving the impression of being ridges of a sleeping Leviathan. But most of them were lying on the shore, from the beach to the forest. Some were buried in the sand and were only partially sticking out, leaving the imagination to guess how big they really were. The singing which the knight heard came from just behind those boulders. The singing girl remained invisible. He pulled his horse, holding him buy the muzzle and nostrils so as to stop him from neighing or snorting. The girl’s clothes lay on one of the boulders lying in the shallows, flat like a table. The girl herself stood naked, waist-deep in the water and was washing, singing and splashing in the process. The knight listened to her singing but did not understand the words. And no wonder. The girl, he would be his head, was not human. This was demonstrated by the slender body, the strange hair colour and the voice. He was sure that if she turned around he would see big almond shaped eyes. And if she swept her ashen hair back he would see ears ending in points. This was a resident of Faerie. A fairy. One of the Tylwyth Teg. One of those, which the Picts and the Irish called Sidhe Daoine, the People of the Hills. One of those that the Saxons called elves. She stopped singing for a moment and immersed herself up to her neck, she panted and snarled and cursed. The knight, however was not fooled. Fairies, as everyone knew, knew how to swear like a human being. Some said as obscenely as a stable boy. And the curse was often a prelude to some malicious trick, which fairies were famous for – for example, increasing the size of someone’s nose to the size of a cucumber or reducing the size of someone masculinity to the size of a bean. The knight had no interest in neither the first or the second option, so he tried to slip away quietly. He was betrayed by a horse. Not his own mount who he still held it’s nostrils so he was quiet and calm, but the horse belonging to the fairy, which the knight did not initially noticed between the boulders. Now the pitch-black mare stamped at the gravel and neighed in greeting. The knight’s stallion shook his head and replied politely. The echo reaching across the water. The fairy came splashing out of the water, presenting the knight for a moment all her glory pleasant to the eye. She threw herself toward the rock on which lay her clothes. But instead of grasping clothes to decently cover herself with, the fairy grabbed a sword and pulled it from its scabbard with a hiss, clutching the steel with amazing skill. It lasted a brief moment, after which the fairy quickly knelt down, hiding in the water up to her nose and holding her arm with the sword in it above the surface of the water. The knight blinked in amazement, dropped the reins and bent his knee, kneeling in the wet sand. He understood immediately who it was before him. ‘Hail, O Lady of the Lake,’ he breathed while stretching out his hands, ‘it is an honour, a tremendous honour… I accept your sword.’ ‘I’d prefer if you rose and turned around,’ the Fairy poked her mouth above the water. ‘ Maybe stop staring? And let me get dressed?’ He obeyed. He heard her leaving the water and the rustling of clothes and the sound of her swearing softly as she pulled them onto her wet body. He busied himself staring at the black mare, its coat soft and shiny like the skin of a mole. It was definitely of noble blood and fast like the wind. It was undoubtedly a magic horse, and also an inhabitant of Faerie, as well as its owner. ‘You can turn around.’ ‘Lady of the Lake…’ ‘And introduce yourself.’ ‘I am Galahad, of Caer Benice. A knight of King Arthur, Lord of Camelot, ruler of the Kingdom of Summer, as well as Dumnonia, Dyfeint, Powys, Dyfed...’ ‘And Temeria?’ she interrupted. ‘Redania. Rivia, Aedirn? Nilfgaard? Would you say any of these names?’ ‘No. I have never heard of them.’ She shrugged her shoulders. In her hand, besides the sword she was holding boots and a shirt, washed and wrung out. ‘I thought so. What day is it?’ ‘It is,’ he replied with surprise, ‘the second full moon after Beltane... Lady...’ ‘Ciri,’ she said unthinkingly, twisting her shoulders to better position the clothes drying on her skin. She spoke with a strange accent. Her eyes were green and huge... She instinctively brushed back her wet hair and the knight sighed involuntary. Not only because her ear was normal, human and in no way elven. Her cheek was marred by a huge, ugly scar. She had been injured. But how can you injure a fairy? She noticed his astonished gaze, she narrowed her eyes and wrinkled her nose. ‘A scar, yes!’ she said with her striking accent. ‘Why do you look so frightened? Is it such an uncommon thing for a knight, a scar? Or is it so ugly?’ He slowly, with both hands pulled down the hood of his chain mail and passed his hands through his hair. ‘Certainly not an uncommon thing for a knight,’ he said with youthful pride, demonstrating a barely healed scar running from his temple to his jaw. ‘And nasty are the scars of honour. I am Galahad, son of Lancelot du Lac and Elaine, daughter of King Pelles, Lord of Caer Benic. This wound was caused to me by Breunis the Cruel, an undignified oppressor of women, even though I beat him in a fair duel. Truly, I am honoured to take this sword from your hand, Lady of the Lake...’ ‘What?’ ‘The sword. I am willing to accept it.’ ‘This is my sword. I don’t let anyone touch it.’ ‘But...’ ‘But what?’ ‘The Lady of the Lake has always... Always emerges from the water and gives her sword.’ She was silent for some time. ‘I understand,’ she said finally. ‘Well, another country, another custom. I’m sorry, Galahad or whatever your name is, but apparently you have not found the lady of which you have heard. I am not giving away anything.