She ate everything.
At noon, she vomited up everything she had eaten and then fainted. When she came to, she found a patch of shade and lay, curled up in a ball, her hands clutching her painful belly.
She began to march again at sunset. She moved painfully stiffly. She fell down again and again but got up each time and continued walking.
She kept walking. She had to keep walking.
Evening. Rest. Night. The Eye showed her the way. Marching until she reached the point of utter exhaustion, which came well before sunrise. Rest. Fitful sleep. Hunger. Cold. The absence of magical energy; a disaster when she tried to conjure up light and warmth. Her thirst only intensified by licking the dew from the dagger’s blade and the rocks in the early hours.
When the sun rose she fell asleep in the growing warmth. She was woken by the searing heat. She stood up and continued on her way.
She fainted after less than an hour’s march. When she came to the sun was at its zenith, and the heat was unbearable. She didn’t have the strength to look for shade. She didn’t have the strength to get to her feet. But she did.
She walked on. She didn’t give in. She walked for almost the entire following day, and part of the night.
Once again, she slept through the worst of the heat, curled up in a ball beneath a sloping boulder which was partly buried in the sand. Her sleep had been fitful and exhausting; she had dreamed of water. Water which could be drunk. Huge, white waterfalls framed in haze and rainbows. Gurgling streams. Small forest springs shaded by ferns with their roots in the water. Palace fountains smelling of wet marble. Mossy wells and full buckets spilling over . . . drops of water falling from melting icicles . . . Water. Cold, refreshing water, cold enough to make your teeth sting, but with such a wonderful, incomparable taste . . .
She awoke, leapt to her feet and began to walk back the way she had come. She turned around, staggering and falling. She had to go back! She had passed water on the way! She had passed a stream, gushing amongst the rocks! How could she be so foolish!
She came to her senses.
The heat subsided; evening was approaching. The setting sun indicated the way west. The mountains. The sun could not be – could not possibly be – at her back. Ciri chased away the visions and choked back her sobs. She turned around and began to march.
She walked the entire night, but very slowly. She did not get far. She was dropping off to sleep as she walked, dreaming of water. The rising sun found her sitting on a rock, staring at the dagger’s blade and her naked forearm.
Blood is a liquid, after all. It can be drunk.
She drove away the hallucinations and nightmares. She licked the dew-covered dagger and began to walk.
She fainted. She came around, seared by the sun and the baking stones.
Before her, beyond a shimmering heat haze, she saw the jagged, serrated mountain range.
Closer. Significantly closer.
But she had no more strength. She sat up.
The dagger in her hand reflected the sunlight and burnt hot. It was sharp. She knew that.
Why do you torture yourself? said the calm, pedantic voice of the enchantress, Tissaia de Vries. Why do you condemn yourself to suffering? It’s time you put an end to it!
No. I won’t give in.
You will not endure this. Do you know how you die from thirst? Any moment now you will lose your mind, and then it will be too late. Then you won’t be able to end it all.
No. I won’t give in. I will endure it.
She sheathed the dagger. She stood up, staggered and fell down. She stood up again, staggered and began to march.
Above her, high in the yellow sky, she saw a vulture.
When she came to again, she couldn’t remember having fallen. She couldn’t remember how long she had been lying there. She looked up at the sky. Two more vultures had joined the first one wheeling above her. She didn’t have enough strength to get up.
She realised this was the end. She accepted it calmly. Almost with relief.
Something touched her.
It nudged her gently and cautiously on the shoulder. After such a long period of solitude, after so long surrounded by lifeless, motionless rocks, the touch made her jerk up, in spite of her exhaustion. It made her attempt to jump to her feet. Whatever had touched her snorted and sprang back, stamping its feet noisily.
Ciri sat up with difficulty, rubbing the encrusted corners of her eyes with her knuckles.
I’ve gone mad, she thought.
Several paces in front of her stood a horse. She blinked. It wasn’t an illusion. It really was a horse. A young horse, not much more than a foal.
She was now fully awake. She licked her cracked lips and cleared her throat involuntarily. The horse jumped and ran some distance away, its hooves grating over the loose stones. It moved very strangely, and its coat was also unusual – neither dun nor grey. Perhaps the effect was just an illusion, created by the sunlight shining behind it.