‘It is with great regret I must inform you,’ said Vilgefortz, his fingers caressing the stem of his cup,
‘that Ciri, your ward, has departed from this world. You can only blame yourself, Yennefer. And your foolish stubbornness.’
...
‘You, Yennefer,’ he drawled, ‘probably think I am lying to deceive you. Why would I?
The report of the girl’s death has crushed me like you, if not more.
After all I had big plans for her, which would decide about my future. Ciri is dead and now my plans have collapsed.’
...
‘On the contrary,’ continued the sorcerer, ‘to you Ciri was only a silly sentiment,
consisting of equal parts of the penalty of your infertility and your guilt. Yes, yes, Yennefer, a sentiment of guilt!
After you had actively participated in genetic experiments, by which Ciri came into the world.
Incidentally the experiment failed because the experimenters lacked knowledge.’
...
‘It is too late,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘you have to know, Yennefer, I have enough knowledge.
And if I had this girl, I would use this knowledge. In fact, you have nothing to regret,
even though you are dry and barren as a desert, I wanted to strengthen the weak maternal instinct
and give you not only a daughter, but even a grandchild. Or at least an ersatz grandchild.
...
‘I am sorry to spoil your good humour, my dear,’ said the wizard coldly.
‘Because I have the sad news that the witcher, Geralt of Rivia is also dead.
Yes, Yes, the same witcher Geralt, with whom, as with Ciri, you associated your surrogate feelings,
foolish, embarrassing and nauseating to the stomach. Know Yennefer that our dear friend, the witcher,
said goodbye to the world in a truly fiery spectacular. On this occasion, you should not have any remorse.
For the witcher’s death, you are not guilty to even the smallest degree.
All the credit belongs to me. Taste the candied pears, they are really delicious.’
...
‘And where is Mister Rience?’ Yennefer asked, emphasizing the words.
‘Mister Rience, who has promised to do so much to me.
And where is Mister Schirru, who never failed to hit or kick me?
And why does my guard, who until recently, were violent and vulgar brutes, started to behave in timid reverence?
No, do not answer, Vilgefortz. I think I know. What you told me is a lie.
You have lost Ciri and Geralt escaped, while organizing a bloodbath for your minions. Now what?
Your plans have collapsed, turned to dust and you have recognized that your dreams of power have faded like smoke.
And the sorceresses and Dijkstra draw closer and closer.
It is not without reason and not out of pity that you have stopped torturing me.
And Emperor Emhyr tightens his network, and this is turning out to be very, very bad.
Ess a tearth, me tiarn? A’pleine a cales, ellea?’
...
‘My name is Bonhart,’ he said. ‘It would be nice that you remember this name, witch. That you engrave it in your memory.’
‘Go fuck yourself, pig.’
‘I am a bounty hunter,’ he growled.
‘Three months ago, in September, I caught your little bastard in Ebbing, the famous Ciri, which you were talking about.’
Yennefer listen carefully. September. Ebbing. Caught her. But she isn’t here. Maybe he is lying?
‘The grey-haired witcher was trained at Kaer Morhen.
I told her to fight in an arena, to kill people while people in the audience screamed.
Slowly, slowly I turned her more into a beast. I taught her this role with whip, fist and boot.
She learned for a long time. But then she escaped me, the green-eyed snake.’
Yennefer imperceptibly sighed with relief.
‘She escaped into another world. But we will meet again, I am sure of it.
You know, witch, the only thing I regret is that your lover, the witcher Geralt was burned at the stake.
I wanted to give him a taste of my blade, damn mutant.’
Yennefer snorted.
‘Listen, Bonhart, or whatever your name is. Do not make me laugh. The witcher was not brought up to heel.
You cannot compare with him. You can only hunt puppies. Only small dogs.’
‘Look here, witch.’
With a sharp movement he parted his shirt and pulled out a chain with three silver medallions hanging from it.
One had the shape of a cat’s head, the other an eagle or a griffin.
The third she did not see exactly, but she thought it was a wolf.
‘Such trinkets,’ she said, feigning indifference, ‘you can buy at any fair.’
‘These are not from a fair.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘It was once so,’ hissed Bonhart, ‘that good people were afraid of the witchers more than the monsters.
Monsters, after all, sat in the woods and caves, however, witchers had the nerve to walk the streets,
enter taverns, and hover near shrines, temples, schools and playgrounds. Decent people were offended,
so they started looking for someone who could bring the insolent witchers to order. They found someone.
Not easily or soon, not even close. But they found someone. You see, I have killed three.
Not another mutant appeared in the area to upset the honest citizens.
And if he appeared, I do to him what I did to the previous ones.’
‘Really,’ Yennefer said, ‘with a crossbow from around a corner? Or by poisoning?’
Bonhart put the medallions back under his shirt and took a step towards her.
‘You insult me, witch.’
‘That is what I wanted.’
‘Oh, really? I will show you, witch, that I can compete with your Witcher lover in any field and even be better than him.’
The guards standing at the door jumped upon hearing the crash, bang, howling and whimpering from the cell.
And if the guards had ever happened in their life to hear a panther caught in trap,
they would have sworn that the cell held a panther. Then the guards heard from the cell a terrible roar,
like a wounded lion, which they had also never heard on watch and only ever seen on their coat of arms.
They looked at each other. Shook their heads and entered.
Yennefer sat in the corner of the room, among the remains of the stool.
Her hair was dishevelled, her dress and shirt torn from top to bottom, her breasts rose sharply with her heavy breathing.
Blood flowed from her nose, a bruise was quickly growing on her face, and there were scratches on her right arm.
Bonhart was sitting in the other corner of the room, among bits of stool, holding his head in both hands.
He too was bleeding from his nose, the blood colouring his moustaches a deep crimson.
His face was marked by bloody grooves. Yennefer’s barely healed fingers were a terrible weapon,
but the dimeritium bracelets had some wonderfully sharp edges.
In Bonhart’s cheek, neatly along the cheek bone, embedded deeply was a fork,
which Yennefer had silently stolen at dinner.
‘Only small dogs,’ the sorceress gasped, trying to cover her breast with the remains of her dress.
‘And stay away from the big dogs, you are too weak for them, bastard.’
She could not forgive herself for not getting him where she was aiming - his eye.
But the target was moving, and besides, no one is perfect.
Bonhart grunted, stood up, grabbed the fork and roared and reeled with pain. He swore horribly.
Meanwhile, two more guards had entered the room.
‘Hey, you!’ Bonhart roared, wiping blood from his face.
‘Come here! Hold this whore on the floor, stretch open her legs and hold her!’
The guards looked at each other, then at the ceiling.
‘You better leave, sir,’ said one. ‘There will be no holding or stretching here. It is not our job.’
‘Besides,’ added the second in a whisper, ‘we do not want to end up like Rience and Schirru.’
Though, it seems like he's talking about something that actually took place in the past. So, considering timeline and other facts which was mentioned here, it looks like either as a: a) reproach to mage society in general, pathetic effort to make Yen ashamed about group responsibility; or b) reproach to Yen for some deeds from her past, which are unlikely has linkage to Ciri (see timeline and Francesca's speech)