Read Witcher the Lady of the Lake Pdf

  THE LADY OF THE LAKE

ANDRZEJ SAPKOWSKI

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Affiliate One

Chapter Two

Affiliate 3

Affiliate Iv

Chapter 5

Affiliate Half dozen

Chapter Vii

Chapter Eight

Affiliate Ix

Chapter 10

Affiliate Eleven

As well Past Andrzej Sapkowski

Special Thanks to the Community at the Witcher.com forum & TheWitcher.wikia.com

Chapter ONE

They kept riding until they came to a large, beautiful lake full of crystal articulate h2o, and in the heart of the lake, Arthur saw an arm clothed in white cloth holding a cute sword.

'Behold, at that place is the sword of which I spoke,' pointed Merlin.

Suddenly they saw a girl walking on the surface of the lake.

'Who is that daughter?' asked Arthur.

'That is the Lady of the Lake,' said Merlin.

Sir Thomas Malory

Le Morte D'arthur

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 plenty.

The surface of the water was a deep blueish similar a polished sapphire and smoothen as a mirror. Then 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. Every bit if drawn past the magnetic force of a spell that slumbered in that location, deep down in the dark waters. The horse stepped timidly amongst 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 amid the colored pebbles.

His armor rattled when he knelt. Startling fry and fish as vivid equally tiny needles, he scooped water into his hands. He drank slowly and charily, the water ice cold water numbed his natural language and lips and hurt his teeth.

When he bent down to collect water a second time a audio travelled over the surface of the lake. He raised his head. The equus caballus whinnied, confirming that he too heard information technology.

He listened. No, it was non an illusion. What he heard was singing. A woman singing. Or rather a daughter.

Like all knights he had been raised with bard tales of chivalry. In these tales a daughter singing or calling was in nine cases out of ten, a lure. The knight who followed inevitably savage into an ambush. Often fatal.

Merely 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 prepare off up the beach in the direction of the singing. He did not have to get in.

The shore was strewn with huge boulders, dark and polished to a vivid shine, giant toys carelessly tossed hither and forgotten about after completing the game. Some of the boulders were lying in the water of the lake, under the night surface. Some rose higher up the surface and were licked by small waves, giving the impression of being ridges of a sleeping Leviathan. Just most of them were lying on the shore, from the beach to the woods. Some were buried in the sand and were just partially sticking out, leaving the imagination to approximate how large they really were.

The singing which the knight heard came from just behind those boulders. The singing daughter remained invisible. He pulled his horse, holding him buy the muzzle and nostrils then 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 tabular array. The girl herself stood naked, waist-deep in the h2o 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 daughter, he would be his head, was not man. This was demonstrated by the slender trunk, the strange hair color and the vocalism. He was certain that if she turned around he would see big almond shaped optics. And if she swept her ashen pilus back he would see ears ending in points.

This was a resident of Faerie. A fairy. I of the Tylwyth Teg. One of those, which the Picts and the Irish called Sidhe Daoine, the People of the Hills. Ane of those that the Saxons chosen elves.

She stopped singing for a moment and immersed herself upwards to her neck, she panted and snarled and cursed. The knight, however was not fooled. Fairies, as anybody knew, knew how to swear like a homo. Some said equally obscenely as a stable boy. And the curse was often a prelude to some malicious play a joke on, which fairies were famous for – for example, increasing the size of someone'south 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, then he tried to slip away quietly. He was betrayed by a horse. Not his own mount who he still held it's nostrils and so he was quiet and at-home, 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 beyond the water.

The fairy came splashing out of the water, presenting the knight for a moment all her glory pleasant to the middle. She threw herself toward the rock on which lay her apparel. Only instead of grasping clothes to decently encompass herself with, the fairy grabbed a sword and pulled it from its scabbard with a hiss, clutching the steel with amazing skill. Information technology 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 information technology above the surface of the h2o.

The knight blinked in amazement, dropped the reins and bent his knee, kneeling in the moisture sand. He understood immediately who it was earlier him.

'Hail, O Lady of the Lake,' he breathed while stretching out his hands, 'it is an honor, a tremendous accolade… I accept your sword.'

'I'd prefer if you rose and turned around,' the Fairy poked her oral fissure above the water. ' Maybe stop staring? And let me go dressed?'

He obeyed.

He heard her leaving the water and the rustling of dress and the sound of her swearing softly as she pulled them onto her moisture torso. He busied himself staring at the black mare, its coat soft and shiny similar the pare of a mole. It was definitely of noble blood and fast like the current of air. It was undoubtedly a magic horse, and too an inhabitant of Faerie, likewise as its owner.

'You can turn effectually.'

'Lady of the Lake…'

'And introduce yourself.'

'I am Galahad, of Caer Benice. A knight of Rex Arthur, Lord of Camelot, ruler of the Kingdom of Summer, also as Dumnonia, Dyfnaint, 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, also the sword she was holding boots and a shirt, washed and wrung out.

'I thought so. What day is it?'

'Information technology is,' he replied with surprise, 'the second total moon afterward Beltane... Lady...'

'Ciri,' she said unthinkingly, twisting her shoulders to amend position the clothes drying on her peel. 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. Only 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 hitting emphasis. 'Why do you look then 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 easily through his hair.

'Certainly non 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 laurels. I am Galahad, son of Lancelot du Lac and Elaine, daughter of Rex Pelles, Lord of Caer Benic. This wound was caused to me by Breunis the Cruel, an undignified oppressor of women, fifty-fifty though I crush him in a fair duel. Truly, I am honored to accept this sword from your manus, 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 sad, Galahad or any your name is, only apparently yous have not establish the lady of which you have heard. I am not giving abroad anything. Or letting anything be taken. Let's be clear.'

'Only yet,' he dared to say, 'y'all've come from the Faerie, Lady, is it and so?'

'I come,' she said after a moment, her green eyes seemed to stare into the abyss of space and time. 'I come from Rivia, and from the city of the same name. Next to the lake Loc Eskalott. I came here on a boat. It was foggy. I could not see the edges. I heard neighing. Kelpie… My mare had followed me.'

She spread her wet shirt out on a stone. The knight gave a offset once again. The shirt was done, but not very thoroughly. He could nevertheless encounter traces of blood.

'The river electric current brought me here,' continued the girl, without seeing that he had noticed or pretending not to see. 'The river electric current and the magic of the unicorn… What do you telephone call this lake?'

'I exercise non know,' he admitted. 'In Gwynedd there are many lakes…'

'In Gwynedd?'

'Of class. Those are the mountains, Y Wyddfa. If you continue them to your left and if you go through the wood for ii days you'll get in at Dinas Dinlleu and beyond that Caer Dathal. And the river… The nearest river…'

'It'south not important what the nearest river is. Do you have annihilation to eat, Galahad? I'm starving. Why are y'all looking at me like that? Are you afraid that I'll disappear? That I'll fly off with your sausage and biscuits? Don't be afraid. In my world I have created enough mess and I won't be going dorsum for some fourth dimension. So I will stay in yours for a time. In a world in which I search in vain for the Dragon or the 7 Goats in the night sky. Where nosotros are now in the 2d full moon after Belleteyn and Belleteyn is pronounced Beltane. Why exercise you stare at me, I ask you lot?'

'I did not know that fairies eat.'

'Fairies, sorceresses and elves. They all eat. They drink. And so on.'

'What practice you mean?'

'It does not matter.'

The longer he studied her, the more than she lost her magical aura and became more humane and ordinary – nearly mundane. He knew, however, that such was non the instance, it could non

be. A plainly, ordinary girl would never have been met alone at the foot of Y Wyddfa, on the edge of Cwm Pwcca, bathing naked in a mount lake and washing a blood-stained shirt. No matter how the girl looked, in no example could she exist an earthly creature. Despite knowing this, Galahad could look calmly and without superstitious fear at her mouse colored hair, which to his amazement at present that it was dry, was traversed past shiny streaks of gray. He could now wait at her slender hands, her little nose, her pale lips her male clothing with a strange cut, made with an extremely fragile textile. And her sword, with its foreign design and ornaments, but did not seem like an ornament for parades. And her bare feet, covered with the dry sand of the beach.

'To be articulate,' she spoke, wiping one foot with the other, 'I'm not a fairy or an elf. A sorceress, that is, a fairy, I'm... a little unusual. Ehh, I'thousand non.'

'I'm distressing, really.'

'Why are you lamentable?'

'They say...' he blushed and stammered. 'They say that fairies, if they happen to see a beau, they lead them to Elfland and at that place... Under the bushes in a wood, on a bed of moss, show them...'

'I sympathize,' she looked at him rapidly and firmly bit the sausage. 'In regards to the Land of the Elves,' she said swallowing, 'I fled in that location some time ago and I'm in no bustle to return. With regards to the bed of moss... Indeed, Galahad, you lot have not establish the lady that was needed. Withal, thanks for your interest.'

'Lady! I did non mean to offend you...'

'Do not apologize.'

'It's because you lot are so beautiful.'

' I give thanks y'all over again. Merely this changes nothing.'

They were silent for a while. It was hot. The sunday at it zenith warmed the stones nicely. A slight cakewalk wrinkled the surface of the lake.

'What does it mean..' Galahad suddenly said in a strangely exalted voice. 'What does information technology mean, a spear with encarmine tip? What does information technology mean and why does the Male monarch suffer so, from a pierced thigh? What does a lady in white conveying a grail a silver cup...'

'Are yous feeling alright?' she interrupted.

'I'thou but asking.'

'I do not understand your question. Is it a password? A bespeak with which to recognize initiates? Explicate it to me.'

'I cannot explicate improve.'

'Then why do you ask?'

'Because...' he said, fidgeting. 'Merely... One of us did non inquire we he had the opportunity. Either he could not observe the words or her was ashamed... He did not ask and that is why many misfortunes have occurred. So now I always enquire. Just in instance.'

'Are in that location any wizards in this world? You know, those dealing in magic. Mages. Seers.'

'There is Merlin. Or Morgana. But Morgana is evil.'

'And Merlin?'

'Almost one-half.'

'Practice you lot know where to find him?'

'Of course. In Camelot. In the courtroom of King Arthur. I'm headed there.'

'Is it far?'

'From here to Powys, to the river Hafen, then upwardly the Hafen to Glevum. From there it is near to the plains about the Kingdom of Summer. All in all about ten days riding.'

'As well far.'

'You can,' he stammered, 'shorten the journey past going through Cwm Pwcca. But it is an enchanted valley. It is horrible. There alive the Y Dynan Bach Teg, evil dwarves...'

'Do y'all merely wear your sword for show?'

'And tin can a sword do anything against magic?'

'Can do, can practise, exercise not uncertainty. I'chiliad a witcher. Have yous heard of them? Eh, of course you haven't heard. And I'm not agape of dwarves. I take many friends amid the dwarves.'

Sure, he thought.

'Lady of the Lake?'

'My proper name is Ciri. Do not call me Lady of the Lake. It brings dorsum unpleasant memories, painful, harmful. So they chosen me in the Land of... What did you phone call this land?'

'Faerie. Or every bit the Druids say: Annwn. Or Elfland by the Saxons.'

'Elfland...' she covered her shoulders with a checkered blanket. 'I was there, you lot know? I entered the Tower of the Consume and bam, I was amongst the elves. And that's what they called me. Lady of the Lake. I fifty-fifty liked information technology at offset. Information technology flattered me. Until I realize that in that country, in that belfry over the lake, I

was no lady, but a prisoner.'

'Is that,' he could not hide his curiosity, 'where yous stained your shirt with claret?'

She paused for a long time.

'No,' she said at concluding, and her vocalism it seemed was trembling slightly. 'Not at that place. You take keen eyes. In short, you cannot escape the truth past hiding your head in the sand... Yes, Galahad. I'k often roofing in claret in recent times. With the claret of the enemies I've killed. And with the blood of friends who I tried to save... and who died in my arms... Why do yous look at me like that?'

'I do not know if y'all are a goddess or a mortal woman. Or a supernatural beingness born on globe...'

'Get to the point if you please.'

'I wish,' Galahad's eyes flared, 'to hear thy story. Would you tell me, O Lady?'

'It is long.'

'We have fourth dimension.'

'And it does not stop happily.'

'I do not believe that.'

'Why?'

'Y'all were singing every bit you bathed in the lake.'

'You are observant,' she turned her head, pursed her lips and a wrinkled marred her confront suddenly. 'Yep, observant, Merely very innocent.'

'Tell me thy story. Delight.'

'Well, if you want,' she sighed. 'I will tell.'

She sabbatum down comfortably. The horses walked along the edge of the forest, grazing on grasses and herbs.

'From the showtime,' Galahad prompted. 'From the very beginning...'

'More and more, information technology seems to me' she said after a moment, tightly wrapping the plaid coating effectually her, 'my story actually has no beginning. I'm not even certain whether it has actually concluded. Know that the by and the present intermingle terribly. There was an elf who told me that it is similar a serpent that bites it own tail. This ophidian, so you know, is chosen Uroboros. And if he bites his own tail information technology means the circle is airtight. In any moment of time is subconscious the past, present and future. In any moment of time lies eternity. Practise you empathise?'

'No.'

'It doesn't matter.'

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