New chapter coming soon!

Hello guys! Already on this Sunday (October 17), the publication of the new chapter  "Uroboros" will begin!

Ciri is the princess of Cintra and was brought up at the palace until about 12 years old, but 4 years have already passed after her escape and it is obvious that Ciri is beginning to forget what etiquette and rules of behavior are for princesses.

In the second chapter of the book, Sapkowski inserts an episode with Emperor Emhyr and false Ciri, so that the reader would begin to understand the customs at court and the position of princesses in general. 

I advise you to read this point again to refresh your memory or read it who didn't read the book at all and to make it more understandable what will happen in Chapter 10.

Master Robin Anderida was the first to see the emperor approaching and
bowed. Stella Congreve, Countess of Liddertal, stood up and curtseyed,
gesturing to the girl seated on a carved armchair to do the same.
‘Greetings, Ladies.’ Emhyr var Emreis inclined his head. ‘Greetings to
you, too, Master Robin. How goes the work?’
Master Robin coughed in embarrassment and bowed again, nervously
wiping his fingers on his smock. Emhyr knew that the artist suffered from
acute agoraphobia and was pathologically shy. But whose concern was that?
What mattered was how well he painted.
The emperor, as was customary when he was travelling, was wearing an
officer’s uniform of the Impera guards’ brigade: black armour and a cloak
with an embroidered silver salamander. He walked over and looked at the
portrait. First at the portrait and only afterwards at the model: a slender girl
with fair hair and a wistful gaze. She was wearing a white dress with green
sleeves, with a slight décolletage decorated with a peridot necklace.
‘Excellent,’ he said intentionally into space, so they wouldn’t know who
he was praising. ‘Excellent, Master. Please continue, without paying
attention to me. A word, if you would, Countess.’
He walked away, towards the window, making her follow him.
‘I ride,’ he said quietly. ‘State affairs. Thank you for your hospitality.
And for her. For the princess. Good work, indeed, Stella. Truly deserving of
praise. Both for you and her.’
Stella Congreve curtseyed low and gracefully.
‘Your Imperial Majesty is too good to us.’
‘Don’t speak too soon.’
‘Oh …’ She pursed her lips slightly. ‘Has it come to that?’
‘It has.’
‘What will become of her, Emhyr?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘In ten days I renew the offensive in the
North. And it promises to be an exacting, a very exacting war. Vattier de
Rideaux is monitoring plots and conspiracies aimed at me. Reasons of state
may force on me very extreme acts.’
‘That child is not to blame for anything.’
‘I said reasons of state. Reasons of state have nothing in common with
justice. In any case …’ He waved a hand. ‘I want to talk to her. Alone.
Come closer, Princess. Closer, closer, look lively. Your emperor
commands.’
The girl curtseyed low. Emhyr looked her up and down, returning in his
memory to that momentous audience in Loc Grim. He was full of
appreciation, nay admiration, for Stella Congreve, who in the course of the
six months that had passed since that moment had managed to transform the
ugly duckling into a little noblewoman.
‘Leave us,’ he commanded. ‘Take a break, Master Robin. To clean your
brushes, let’s say. While I would ask you, Countess, to wait in the
antechamber. And you, Princess, follow me onto the terrace.’
The wet snow which had fallen in the night was melting in the first rays
of the morning sun, and the roofs of the towers and pinnacles of Darn
Rowan Castle were still wet and glistened as though on fire.
Emhyr went over to the balcony’s balustrade. The girl–in keeping with
protocol–hung back three paces. He gestured impatiently for her to come
closer.
The emperor said nothing for a long time, resting both hands on the
balustrade, staring at the hills and the evergreen yews covering them,
clearly distinct from the white limestone of the rocky faults. The river
glinted, a ribbon of molten silver winding through the valley.
Spring was in the air.
‘I reside here too seldom,’ said Emhyr. The girl said nothing. ‘I come
here too seldom,’ he repeated, turning around. ‘And it’s a beautiful place,
exuding calm. A beautiful region … Do you agree with me?’
‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’
‘Spring is in the air. Am I right?’
‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’
From below, in the courtyard, came the sound of singing disturbed by
clanking, rattling and the clattering of horseshoes. The escort, informed that
the emperor had ordered his departure, was hurriedly making ready for the
road. Emhyr remembered that among the guardsmen was one who sang.
Often. And regardless of circumstances.

Look on me graciously
With eyes of cornflower blue
Grant me mercifully
Your fondness so true
Think on me mercifully
And at this night hour
Decline me not graciously
But receive me to your bower

‘A pretty ballad,’ he said ponderously, touching his heavy, gold, imperial
necklace with his fingers.
‘It is, Your Imperial Majesty.’
Vattier assures me he is on Vilgefortz’s trail. That finding him is a
question of days, at most weeks. The traitors’ heads will fall, and the real
Cirilla, Queen of Cintra, will be brought to Nilfgaard.
And before the authentic Cirilla, Queen of Cintra, comes to Nilfgaard,
something will have to be done with her look-alike.
‘Raise your head.’
She obeyed.
‘Do you have any wishes?’ he asked, suddenly and harshly. ‘Any
complaints? Requests?’
‘No, Your Imperial Highness. I do not.’
‘Indeed? Interesting. Ah well, but I can’t exactly order you to have any.
Raise your head, as befits a princess. Stella has taught you manners, I
trust?’
‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’
Indeed, they have taught her well, he thought. First Rience, and then
Stella. They’ve taught her the roles and lines well, no doubt threatening her
with torture and death for a slip or mistake. They warned her she would
have to perform before a cruel audience, unforgiving of errors. Before the
awe-inspiring Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon.’
‘Your real name.’
‘Cirilla Fiona—’
‘Do not try my patience. Your name!’
‘Cirilla …’ The girl’s voice broke like a twig. ‘Fiona …’
‘That will do, by the Great Sun,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘That
will do!’
She sniffed loudly. Contrary to protocol. Her mouth trembled, but
protocol did not forbid that.
‘Calm yourself,’ he commanded, but in a soft and almost gentle voice.
‘What do you fear? Are you ashamed of your own name? Are you afraid to
disclose it? If I ask, it is only because I’d like to address you by your
rightful name. But I have to know what it sounds like.’
‘It sounds dull,’ she answered, and her huge eyes suddenly gleamed like
emeralds lit by a flame. ‘For it is a dull name, Your Imperial Majesty. A
name just right for somebody who’s a nobody. As long as I am Cirilla Fiona
I mean something … As long as …’
Her voice stuck in her throat so abruptly that she involuntarily brought
her hands up to her neck as though what was around it was not a necklace
but a garrotte. Emhyr continued to measure her with his gaze, still full of
appreciation for Stella Congreve. At the same time, he felt anger.
Unjustified anger. Unjustified and therefore very infuriating.
What do I want from this child? he thought, feeling the anger rising in
him, seething in him, frothing up like soup in a pot. What do I want from a
child, whom . . ?
‘Know that I had nothing to do with your abduction, girl,’ he said
sharply. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with your kidnapping. I didn’t issue
any such orders. I was deceived …’
He was furious with himself, aware he was making a mistake. He ought
to have ended the conversation much earlier, ended it haughtily, arrogantly,
menacingly, as befitted an emperor. He ought to have forgotten about this
girl with the green eyes. This girl that did not exist. She was a double. An
imitation. She didn’t even have a name. She was nobody. The emperor does
not ask for forgiveness, does not demean himself before someone who …
‘Forgive me,’ he said, and the words were unfamiliar, clung
unpleasantly to his lips. ‘I committed an error. Yes, it’s true, I’m guilty of
what happened to you. I was at fault. But I give you my word that you are
in no danger. Nothing ill will befall you. No harm, no discredit, no woe.
You needn’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not.’ She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes,
contrary to protocol. Emhyr shuddered, moved by the honesty and trust of
her gaze. He immediately stood erect, imperious and repellently
supercilious.
‘Ask me for whatever you wish.’
She looked at him again, and he involuntarily recalled the innumerable
occasions when he had so easily bought himself ease of conscience for the
harm or pain he’d caused somebody. Secretly and reprehensibly pleased
that he was paying so little.
‘Ask me for whatever you wish,’ he repeated, and because he was
already weary his voice suddenly gained in humanity. ‘I’ll make your every
wish come true.’
If only she wouldn’t look at me, he thought. I can’t bear her gaze.
Apparently people are afraid to look at me, he thought. So what then am
I afraid of?
Vattier de Rideaux can shove his ‘reasons of state’. If she asks, I’ll have
her taken home, where she was snatched from. I’ll order her taken there in
a golden carriage and six. All she need do is ask.
‘Ask me for whatever you wish,’ he repeated.
‘Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,’ said the girl, lowering her eyes.
‘Your Imperial Majesty is very noble and generous. If I might make a
request …’
‘Speak.’
‘I’d like to be able to stay here. Here, in Darn Rowan. With Lady Stella.’
He wasn’t surprised. He’d sensed something like that.
Tact restrained him from asking questions that would have been
humiliating for them both.
‘I gave my word,’ he said, coldly. ‘Let your wish come true.’
‘Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty.’
‘I gave my word,’ he repeated, trying hard to avoid her gaze, ‘and I shall
keep it. I think, nonetheless, that you’ve made a bad choice. You gave voice
to the wrong wish. Were you to change your mind …’
‘I shall not,’ she said, when it became clear that the emperor was not
going to complete his sentence. ‘Why should I? I’ve chosen Lady Stella,
I’ve chosen things I have known so little of in my life … A home, warmth,
goodness … kindness. You can’t make a mistake by choosing something
like that.’
Poor, naive creature, thought Emperor Emhyr var Emreis, Deithwen
Addan yn Carn aep Morvudd, the White Flame Dancing on the Barrows of
his Enemies. By choosing something like that one can make the most awful
mistakes.
But something–perhaps a distant memory–stopped the emperor from
saying it aloud.

(c)The Lady of the Lake 

Chapter2