A Grain Of Truth

A GRAIN OF TRUTH

I

A number of black points moving against a bright sky streaked with mist drew the witcher’s attention. Birds. They wheeled in slow, peaceful circles, then suddenly swooped and soared up again, flapping their wings.

The witcher observed the birds for a long time, then—bearing in mind the shape of the land, density of the wood, depth and course of the ravine which he suspected lay in his path—calculated the distance to them, and how long he would take to cover it. Finally he threw aside his coat and tightened the belt across his chest by two holes. The pommel and hilt of the sword strapped across his back peeked over his shoulder.

“We’ll go a little out of our way, Roach,” he said. “We’ll take a detour from the highway. I don’t think the birds are circling there for nothing.” The mare walked on, obedient to Geralt’s voice.

“Maybe it’s just a dead elk,” said Geralt. “But maybe it’s not. Who knows?”

There was a ravine, as he had suspected; the witcher scanned the crowns of the trees tightly filling the rift. But the sides of the gully were gentle, the riverbed dry and clear of blackthorns and rotting tree trunks. He crossed it easily. On the other side was a copse of birches, and behind it a large glade, heath and undergrowth, which threw tentacles of tangled branches and roots upward.

The birds, scared away by the appearance of a rider, soared higher, croaking sharply in their hoarse voices.

Geralt saw the first corpse immediately—the white of the sheepskin jacket and matt-blue of the dress stood out clearly against a yellowing clump of sedge. He didn’t see the second corpse but its location was betrayed by three wolves sitting calmly on their haunches watching the witcher. His mare snorted and the wolves, as if at a command, unhurriedly trotted into the woods, every now and again turning their triangular heads to watch the newcomer. Geralt jumped off his horse.

The woman in the sheepskin and blue dress had no face or throat, and most of her left thigh had gone. The witcher, not leaning over, walked by her.

The man lay with his face to the ground. Geralt didn’t turn the body over, seeing that the wolves and birds hadn’t been idle. And there was no need to examine the corpse in detail—the shoulders and back of the woollen doublet were covered with thick black rivulets of dried blood. It was clear the man had died from a blow to the neck, and the wolves had only found the body afterward.

On a wide belt next to a short cutlass in a wooden sheath the man wore a leather purse. The witcher tore it off and, item by item, threw the contents on the grass: a tinderbox, a piece of chalk, sealing-wax, a handful of silver coins, a folding shaving-knife with a bone handle, a rabbit’s ear, three keys and a talisman with a phallic symbol. Two letters, written on canvas, were damp with rain and dew, smudged beyond readability. The third, written on parchment, was also ruined by damp, but still legible. It was a credit note made out by the dwarves’ bank in Murivel to a merchant called Rulle Asper, or Aspen. It wasn’t for a large sum.

Bending over, Geralt lifted the man’s right hand. As he had expected, the copper ring digging into the swollen, blue finger carried the sign of the armorers’ guild: a stylized helmet with visor, two crossed swords and the rune “A” engraved beneath them.

The witcher returned to the woman’s corpse. As he was turning the body over, something pricked him in the finger—a rose, pinned to the dress. The flower had withered but not lost its color: the petals were dark blue, very dark blue. It was the first time Geralt had seen such a rose. He turned the body over completely, and winced.

On the woman’s bare and bloody neck were clear bite marks. And not those of a wolf.

The witcher carefully backed away to his horse. Without taking his eyes from the forest edge, he climbed into the saddle. He circled the glade twice and, leaning over, looked around, examining the ground closely.

“So, Roach,” he said quietly, “the case is reasonably clear. The armorer and the woman arrived on horseback from the direction of the forest. They were on their way home from Murivel, because nobody carries an uncashed credit note for long. Why they were going this way and not following the highway? I don’t know. But they were crossing the heath, side by side. And then—again, I don’t know why—they both dismounted, or fell from, their horses. The armorer died instantly. The woman ran, then fell and died, and whatever attacked her—which didn’t leave any tracks—dragged her along the ground, with her throat in its teeth. The horses ran off. This happened two or three days ago.” The mare snorted restlessly, reacting to his tone of voice.

“The thing which killed them,” continued Geralt, watching the forest’s edge, “was neither a werewolf nor a leshy. Neither would have left so much for the scavengers. If there were swamps here I’d say it was a kikimora or a vypper…but there aren’t any swamps here.” Leaning over, the witcher pulled back the blanket which covered the horse’s side and uncovered another sword strapped to the saddlebag—one with a shining, ornate guard and black corrugated hilt.

“Well, Roach. We’re taking a roundabout route; we’d better check why this armorer and woman were riding through the forest, not along the highway. If we pass by ignoring such incidents, we won’t ever earn enough for your oats, will we?” The mare obediently moved forward, across the heath, carefully sidestepping hollows.

“Although it’s not a werewolf, we won’t take any risks,” the witcher continued, taking a bunch of dried monkshead from a saddlebag and hanging it by the bit. The mare snorted. Geralt unlaced his tunic a little and pulled out a medallion engraved with a wolf with bared jaws. The medallion, hanging on a silver chain, bobbed up and down in rhythm to the horse’s gait, sparkling in the sun’s rays like mercury.

II

He noticed the red tiles of the tower’s conical roof from the summit of a hill as he cut across a bend in the faint trail. The slope, covered with hazel, dry branches and a thick carpet of yellow leaves, wasn’t safe to descend on horseback. The witcher retreated, carefully rode down the incline and returned to the main path. He rode slowly, stopped the horse every now and again and, hanging from the saddle, looked out for tracks.

The mare tossed her head, neighed wildly, stamped and danced on the path, kicking up a storm of dried leaves. Geralt, wrapping his left arm around the horse’s neck, swept his right hand—the fingers arranged in the Sign of Axia—over the mount’s head as he whispered an incantation.

“Is it as bad as all that?” he murmured, looking around and not withdrawing the Sign. “Easy, Roach, easy.” The charm worked quickly but the mare, prodded with his heel, moved forward reluctantly, losing the natural springy rhythm of her gait. The witcher jumped nimbly to the ground and went on by foot, leading her by the bridle. He saw a wall.

There was no gap between the wall and the forest, no distinct break. The young trees and juniper bushes twined their leaves with the ivy and wild vines clinging to the stonework. Geralt looked up. At that same moment, he felt a prickle along his neck, as if an invisible, soft creature had latched on to his neck, lifting the hairs there.

He was being watched.

He turned around smoothly. Roach snorted; the muscles in her neck twitched, moved under her skin.

A girl was standing on the slope of the hill he had just climbed down, one arm resting on the trunk of an alder tree. Her trailing white dress contrasted with the glossy blackness of her disheveled hair, falling to her shoulders. She seemed to be smiling, but she was too far away to be sure.

“Greetings,” he said, raising his hand in a friendly gesture. He took a step toward the girl. She turned her head a little, following his movements. Her face was pale, her eyes black and enormous. The smile—if it had been a smile—vanished from her face as though wiped away with a cloth. Geralt took another step, the leaves rustled underfoot, and the girl ran down the slope like a deer, flitting between the hazel bushes. She was no more than a white streak as she disappeared into the depths of the forest. The long dress didn’t appear to restrict her ease of movement in the least.

Roach neighed anxiously, tossing her head. Geralt, still watching the forest, instinctively calmed her with the Sign again. Pulling the mare by the bridle, he walked slowly along the wall, wading through burdock up to the waist.

He came to a sturdy gate, with iron fittings and rusty hinges, furnished with a great brass knocker. After a moment’s hesitation Geralt reached out and touched the tarnished ring. He immediately jumped back as, at that moment, the gate opened, squeaking, clattering, and raking aside clumps of grass, stones and branches. There was no one behind it—the witcher could only see a deserted courtyard, neglected and overgrown with nettles. He entered, leading Roach. The mare, still stunned by the Sign, didn’t resist, but she moved stiffly and hesitantly after him.

The courtyard was surrounded on three sides by a wall and the remains of some wooden scaffolding. On the fourth side stood the mansion, its façade mottled by a pox of chipped plaster, dirty damp patches, and festooned with ivy. The shutters, with their peeling paint, were closed, as was the door.

Geralt threw Roach’s reins over the pillar by the gate and slowly made his way toward the mansion, following the gravel path past a small fountain full of leaves and rubbish. In the center of the fountain, on a fanciful plinth, a white stone dolphin arched, turning its chipped tail upward.

Next to the fountain in what, a very long time ago, used to be a flowerbed, grew a rosebush. Nothing but the color of the flowers made this bush unique—but the flowers were exceptional: indigo, with a faint shade of purple on the tips of some of the petals. The witcher touched one, brought his face closer and inhaled. The flowers held the typical scent of roses, only a little more intense.

The door and all the shutters of the mansion flew open at the same instant with a bang. Geralt raised his head abruptly. Down the path, scrunching the gravel, a monster was rushing straight at him.

The witcher’s right hand rose, as fast as lightning, above his right shoulder while his left jerked the belt across his chest, making the sword hilt jump into his palm. The blade, leaping from the scabbard with a hiss, traced a short, luminous semi-circle and froze, the point aiming at the charging beast.

At the sight of the sword, the monster stopped short, spraying gravel in all directions. The witcher didn’t even flinch.

The creature was humanoid, and dressed in clothes which, though tattered, were of good quality and not lacking in stylish and useless ornamentation. His human form, however, reached no higher than the soiled collar of his tunic, for above it loomed a gigantic, hairy, bear-like head with enormous ears, a pair of wild eyes and terrifying jaws full of crooked fangs in which a red tongue flickered like flame.

“Flee, mortal man!” the monster roared, flapping his paws but not moving from the spot. “I’ll devour you! Tear you to pieces!” The witcher didn’t move, didn’t lower his sword. “Are you deaf? Away with you!” The creature screamed, then made a sound somewhere between a pig’s squeal and a stag’s bellowing roar, making the shutters rattle and clatter and shaking rubble and plaster from the sills. Neither witcher nor monster moved.

“Clear off while you’re still in one piece!” roared the creature, less sure of himself. “Because if you don’t, then—” “Then what?” interrupted Geralt.

The monster suddenly gasped and tilted his monstrous head. “Look at him, isn’t he brave?” He spoke calmly, baring his fangs and glowering at Geralt with bloodshot eyes. “Lower that iron, if you please. Perhaps you’ve not realized you’re in my courtyard? Or maybe it’s customary, wherever you come from, to threaten people with swords in their own courtyards?” “It is customary,” Geralt agreed, “when faced with people who greet their guests with a roar and the cry that they’re going to tear you to pieces.” “Pox on it!” The monster got himself worked up. “And he’ll insult me on top of it all, this straggler. A guest, is he? Pushes his way into the yard, ruins someone else’s flowers, plays the lord and thinks that he’ll be brought bread and salt. Bah!” The creature spat, gasped and shut his jaws. The lower fangs protruded, making him look like a boar.

“So?” The witcher spoke after a moment, lowering his sword. “Are we going to carry on standing like this?” “And what do you suggest instead? Lying down?” snorted the monster. “Put that iron away, I said.” The witcher nimbly slipped the weapon into its scabbard and, without lowering his arm, stroked the hilt which rose above his shoulder.

“I’d prefer you,” he said, “not to make any sudden moves. This sword can always be drawn again, faster than you imagine.” “I noticed,” rasped the monster. “If it wasn’t for that, you’d have been out of this gate a long time ago, with my bootprint on your arse. What do you want here? How did you get here?” “I got lost,” lied the witcher.

“You got lost,” repeated the monster, twisting his jaws in a menacing grin. “Well, unlose your way. Out of the gate, turn your left ear to the sun and keep walking and you’ll soon get back to the highway. Well? What are you waiting for?” “Is there any water?” asked Geralt calmly. “The horse is thirsty. And so am I, if that doesn’t inconvenience you.” The monster shifted from one foot to the other and scratched his ear. “Listen you,” he said. “Are you really not frightened of me?” “Should I be?”

The monster looked around, cleared his throat and yanked up his baggy trousers.

“Pox on it, what’s the harm of a guest in the house? It’s not every day I meet someone who doesn’t run away or faint at the sight of me. All right, then. If you’re a weary but honest wanderer, I invite you in. But if you’re a brigand or a thief, then I warn you: this house does what I tell it to. Within these walls I rule!” He lifted his hairy paw. All the shutters clattered against the wall once more and deep in the dolphin’s stone gullet, something rumbled.

“I invite you in,” he repeated.

Geralt didn’t move, scrutinizing him.

“Do you live alone?”

“What’s that to do with you?” said the monster angrily, opening his jaws, then croaked loudly, “Oh, I see. No doubt you’d like to know whether I’ve got forty servants all as beautiful as me. I don’t. Well, pox, are you going to make use of my generous invitation? If not, the gate’s over there.” Geralt bowed stiffly. “I accept your invitation,” he said formally. “I won’t slight the right of hospitality.” “My house is your house,” the monster said in return, just as formally, although a little offhandedly. “This way please, dear guest. And leave the horse here, by the well.” The interior was in need of extensive repair, although it was reasonably clean and tidy. The furniture had been made by skilled craftsmen, if a very long time ago. A pungent smell of dust hung in the dark rooms.

“Light!” growled the monster, and the torch in its iron bracket burst into flames and sooty smoke.

“Not bad,” remarked the witcher.

The monster cackled. “That’s it? I see you won’t be amazed by any old trick. I told you this house obeys my commands. This way, please. Careful, the stairs are steep. Light!” On the stairs, the monster turned. “What’s that around your neck, dear guest?”

“Have a look.”

The creature took the medallion in his paw, lifted it up to his eyes, tightening the chain around Geralt’s neck a little.

“The animal has an unpleasant expression. What is it?”

“My guild’s badge.”

“Ah, you make muzzles, no doubt. This way, please. Light!”

The center of the large room, completely devoid of windows, was taken up by a huge oak table, empty apart from an enormous brass candlestick, slowly turning green and covered with trickles of hardened wax. At the monster’s command, the candles lit and flickered, brightening the interior a little.

One wall was hung with weapons, compositions of round shields, crossed partisans, javelins and guisarmes, heavy sabers and axes. Half of the adjacent wall was taken up by an enormous fireplace, above which hung rows of flaking and peeling portraits. The wall facing the entrance was filled with hunting trophies—elks and stag antlers whose branching racks threw long shadows across the grinning mounted heads of wild boar, bear and lynx, over the ruffled and frayed wings of eagles and hawks. The place of honor was filled by a rock dragon’s head, tainted brown, damaged and leaking stuffing. Geralt examined it more closely.

“My grandpa killed it,” said the monster, throwing a huge log into the depths of the fireplace. “It was probably the last one in the vicinity when it got itself killed. Sit, my dear guest. You’re hungry?” “I won’t deny it, dear host.”

The monster sat at the table, lowered his head, clasped his hairy paws over his stomach, muttered something while twiddling his enormous thumbs, then suddenly roared, thumping the table with his paw. Dishes and platters rattled like pewter and silver, chalices jingled like crystal. There was a smell of roast meat, garlic, marjoram and nutmeg. Geralt did not show any surprise.

“Yes.” The monster rubbed his hands. “This is better than servants, isn’t it? Help yourself, dear guest. Here is some fowl, here some boar ham, here terrine of…I don’t know what. Something. Here we have some hazel grouse. Pox, no, it’s partridge. I got the spells muddled up. Eat up, eat up. This is proper, real food, don’t worry.” “I’m not worried.” Geralt tore the fowl in two.

“I forgot,” snorted the monster, “that you’re not timid. What shall I call you?”

“Geralt. And your name, dear host?”

“Nivellen. But they call me Degen or Fanger around here. And they use me to frighten children.” The monster poured the contents of an enormous chalice down his throat, after which he sank his fingers in the terrine, tearing half of it from the bowl in one go.

“Frighten children,” repeated Geralt with his mouth full. “Without any reason, no doubt?” “Of course not. Your health, Geralt!”

“And yours, Nivellen.”

“How’s the wine? Have you noticed that it’s made from grapes and not apples? But if you don’t like it, I’ll conjure up a different one.” “Thank you, it’s not bad. Are your magical powers innate?”

“No. I’ve had them since growing this. This trap, that is. I don’t know how it happened myself, but the house does whatever I wish. Nothing very big; I can conjure up food, drink, clothes, clean linen, hot water, soap. Any woman can do that, and without using magic at that. I can open and close windows and doors. I can light a fire. Nothing very remarkable.” “It’s something. And this…trap, as you call it, have you had it long?”

“Twelve years.”

“How did it happen?”

“What’s it got to do with you? Pour yourself some more wine.”

“With pleasure. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m just asking out of curiosity.” “An acceptable reason,” the monster said, and laughed loudly. “But I don’t accept it. It’s got nothing to do with you and that’s that. But just to satisfy your curiosity a little, I’ll show you what I used to look like. Look at those portraits. The first from the chimney is my father. The second, pox only knows. And the third is me. Can you see it?” Beneath the dust and spiderwebs, a nondescript man with a bloated, sad, spotty face and watery eyes looked down from the painting. Geralt, who was no stranger to the way portrait painters tended to flatter their clients, nodded.

“Can you see it?” repeated Nivellen, baring his fangs.

“I can.”

“Who are you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand?” The monster raised his head; his eyes shone like a cat’s. “My portrait is hung beyond the candlelight. I can see it, but I’m not human. At least, not at the moment. A human, looking at my portrait, would get up, go closer and, no doubt, have to take the candlestick with him. You didn’t do that, so the conclusion is simple. But I’m asking you plainly: are you human?” Geralt didn’t lower his eyes. “If that’s the way you put it,” he answered after a moment’s silence, “then, not quite.” “Ah. Surely it won’t be tactless if I ask, in that case, what you are?”

“A witcher.”

“Ah,” Nivellen repeated after a moment. “If I remember rightly, witchers earn their living in an interesting way—they kill monsters for money.” “You remember correctly.”

Silence fell again. Candle flames pulsated, flicked upward in thin wisps of fire, glimmering in the cut-crystal chalices. Cascades of wax trickled down the candlestick.

Nivellen sat still, lightly twitching his enormous ears. “Let’s assume,” he said finally, “that you draw your sword before I jump on you. Let’s assume you even manage to cut me down. With my weight, that won’t stop me; I’ll take you down through sheer momentum. And then it’s teeth that’ll decide. What do you think, witcher, which one of us has a better chance if it comes to biting each other’s throats?” Geralt, steadying the carafe’s pewter stopper with his thumb, poured himself some wine, took a sip and leaned back into his chair. He was watching the monster with a smile. An exceptionally ugly one.

“Yeeees,” said Nivellen slowly, digging at the corner of his jaws with his claw. “One has to admit you can answer questions without using many words. It’ll be interesting to see how you manage the next one. Who paid you to deal with me?” “No one. I’m here by accident.”

“You’re not lying, by any chance?”

“I’m not in the habit of lying.”

“And what are you in the habit of doing? I’ve heard about witchers—they abduct tiny children whom they feed with magic herbs. The ones who survive become witchers themselves, sorcerers with inhuman powers. They’re taught to kill, and all human feelings and reactions are trained out of them. They’re turned into monsters in order to kill other monsters. I’ve heard it said it’s high time someone started hunting witchers, as there are fewer and fewer monsters and more and more witchers. Do have some partridge before it’s completely cold.” Nivellen took the partridge from the dish, put it between his jaws and crunched it like a piece of toast, bones cracking as they were crushed between his teeth.

“Why don’t you say anything?” he asked indistinctly, swallowing. “How much of the rumors about you witchers is true?” “Practically nothing.”

“And what’s a lie?”

“That there are fewer and fewer monsters.”

“True. There’s a fair number of them.” Nivellen bared his fangs. “One is sitting in front of you wondering if he did the right thing by inviting you in. I didn’t like your guild badge right from the start, dear guest.” “You aren’t a monster, Nivellen,” the witcher said dryly.

“Pox, that’s something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding? A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? No? Maybe I’m the virtue that a miller’s buxom daughter lost in spring? Well, Geralt, tell me what I am. Can’t you see I’m shaking with curiosity?” “You’re not a monster. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to touch this silver tray. And in no way could you hold my medallion.” “Ha!” Nivellen roared so powerfully the candle flames fell horizontal for a moment. “Today, very clearly, is a day for revealing great and terrible secrets! Now I’m going to be told that I grew these ears because I didn’t like milky porridge as a child!” “No, Nivellen,” said Geralt calmly. “It happened because of a spell I’m sure you know who cast that spell.” “And what if I do?”

“In many cases a spell can be uncast.”

“You, as a witcher, can uncast spells in many cases?”

“I can. Do you want me to try?”

“No. I don’t.” The monster opened his jaws and poked out his tongue, two span long, and very red. “Surprised you, hasn’t it?” “That it has,” admitted Geralt.

The monster giggled and lounged in his armchair. “I knew that would,” he said. “Pour yourself some more, get comfortable and I’ll tell you the whole story. Witcher or not, you’ve got an honest face and I feel like talking. Pour yourself more.” “There’s none left.”

“Pox on it!” The monster cleared his throat, then thumped the table with his paw again. A large earthenware demijohn in a wicker basket appeared next to the two empty carafes, from nowhere. Nivellen tore the sealing wax off with his teeth.

“As no doubt you’ve noticed,” he began, pouring the wine, “this is quite a remote area. It’s a long way to the nearest human settlement. It’s because, you see, my father, and my grandfather too, in his time, didn’t make themselves particularly loved by our neighbors or the merchants using the highway. If anyone went astray here and my father spotted them from the tower, they lost—at best—their fortune. And a couple of the nearer settlements were burnt because Father decided the levies were being paid tardily. Not many people liked my father. Except for me, naturally. I cried awfully when what was left of my father after a blow from a two-handed sword was brought home on a cart one day. Grandpa didn’t take part in robbery anymore because, ever since he was hit on the head with a morningstar, he had a terrible stutter. He dribbled and rarely made it to the privy on time. As their heir, I had to lead the gang.

“I was young at the time,” Nivellen continued, “a real milksop, so the lads in the crew wound me around their little fingers in a flash. I was as much in command of them as a fat piglet is of a pack of wolves. We soon began doing things which Father would never have allowed, had he been alive. I’ll spare you the details and get straight to the point. One day we took ourselves as far as Gelibol, near Mirt, and robbed a temple. A young priestess was there too.” “Which temple, Nivellen?”

“Pox only knows, but it must have been a bad one. There were skulls and bones on the altar, I remember, and a green fire was burning. It stank like nobody’s business. But to the point. The lads overpowered the priestess and stripped her, then said I had to become a man. Well, I became a man, stupid little snot that I was, and while I was achieving manhood, the priestess spat into my face and screamed something.” “What?”

“That I was a monster in human skin, that I’d be a monster in a monster’s skin, something about love, blood…I can’t remember. She must have had the dagger, a little one, hidden in her hair. She killed herself and then— “We fled from there, Geralt, I’m telling you—we nearly wore our horses out. It was a bad temple.” “Go on.”

“Then it was as the priestess had said. A few days later, I woke up and as the servants saw me, they screamed and took to their heels. I went to the mirror…You see, Geralt, I panicked, had some sort of an attack, I remember it almost through a haze. To put it briefly, corpses fell. Several. I used whatever came to hand—and I’d suddenly become very strong. And the house helped as best it could: doors slammed, furniture flew in the air, fires broke out. Whoever could get out ran away in a panic: my aunt and cousin, the lads from the crew. What am I saying? Even the dogs howled and cowered. My cat, Glutton, ran away. Even my aunt’s parrot kicked the bucket out of fear. I was alone, roaring, howling, going mad, smashing whatever came to hand, mainly mirrors.” Nivellen paused, sighed and sniffed.

“When the attack was over,” he resumed after a while, “it was already too late. I was alone. I couldn’t explain to anyone that only my appearance had changed, that although in this horrible shape, I was just a stupid youngster, sobbing over the servants’ bodies in an empty manor. I was afraid they’d come back and kill me before I could explain. But nobody returned.” The monster grew silent for a moment and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I don’t want to go back to those first months, Geralt. It still leaves me shaking when I recall them. I’ll get to the point. For a long time, a very long time, I sat in the manor, quiet as a mouse, not stirring from the place. If anyone appeared, which rarely happened, I wouldn’t go out. I’d tell the house to slam the shutters a couple of times, or I’d roar through the gargoyle, and that was usually enough for the would-be guest to leave in a hurry. So that’s how it was, until one day I looked out of the window one pale dawn and—what did I see? Some trespasser stealing a rose from my aunt’s bush. And it isn’t just any old rosebush: these are blue roses from Nazair. It was Grandfather who brought the seedlings. I flew into a fury and jumped outside.

“The fat trespasser, when he got his voice back—he’d lost it when he saw me—squealed that he only wanted a few flowers for his daughter, that I should spare him, spare his life and his health. I was just ready to kick him out of the main gate when I remembered something. Stories Lenka, my nanny—the old bag—used to tell me. Pox on it, I thought, if pretty girls turn frogs into princes, or the other way round, then maybe…Maybe there’s a grain of truth in these stories, a chance…I leapt four yards, roared so loud wild vine tumbled from the wall, and I yelled, ‘Your daughter or your life!’ Nothing better came to mind. The merchant, for he was a merchant, began to weep, then confessed that his daughter was only eight. Are you laughing?” “No.”

“I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over my shitty fate. I felt sorry for the old trader. I couldn’t watch him shake like that. I invited him inside, made him welcome and, when he was leaving, I poured gold and precious stones into his bag. There was still a fair fortune in the cellar from Father’s day. I hadn’t quite known what to do with it, so I could allow myself this gesture. The merchant beamed and thanked me so profusely that he slobbered all over himself. He must have boasted about his adventure somewhere because not two weeks had gone by when another merchant appeared. He had a pretty large bag ready with him. And a daughter. Also pretty large.” Nivellen extended his legs under the table and stretched until the armchair creaked.

“I came to an understanding with the merchant in no time,” he continued. “He’d leave her with me for a year. I had to help him load the sack onto his mule; he wouldn’t have managed by himself.” “And the girl?”

“She had fits at the sight of me for a while. She really thought I’d eat her. But after a month we were eating at the same table, chatting and going for long walks. She was kind, and remarkably smart, and I’d get tongue-tied when I talked to her. You see, Geralt, I was always shy with girls, always made a laughing stock of myself, even with wenches from the cowshed with dung up to their knees, girls the lads from the crew turned over this way and that at will. Even they made fun of me. To say nothing of having a maw like this. I couldn’t even make myself say anything about why I had paid so dearly for a year of her life. The year dragged like the stench following marauding troops until, at last, the merchant arrived and took her away.

“I locked myself in the house, resigned, and didn’t react for several months to any of the guests who turned up with daughters. But after a year spent with company, I realized how hard it was to live without anyone to talk to.” The monster made a noise which was supposed to be a sigh but came out more like a hiccup.

“The next one,” he said after a while, “was called Fenne. She was small, bright and chirpy, a real gold-crest. She wasn’t frightened of me at all. Once, on the anniversary of my first haircut, my coming of age, we’d both drunk too much mead and…ha, ha. Straight after, I jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. I must admit I was disappointed, and despondent. The trap was the same as it ever was, if with a slightly more stupid expression. And they say the wisdom of ages is to be found in fairy tales. It’s not worth a shit, wisdom like that, Geralt.

“Well, Fenne quickly tried to make me forget my worries. She was a jolly girl, I tell you. Do you know what she thought up? We’d both frighten unwanted guests. Imagine: a guest like that enters the courtyard, looks around, and then, with a roar, I charge at him on all fours with Fenne, completely naked, sitting on my back and blowing my grandfather’s hunting horn!” Nivellen shook with laughter, the white of his fangs flashing. “Fenne,” he continued, “stayed with me for a year, then returned to her family with a huge dowry. She was preparing to marry a tavern owner, a widower.” “Carry on, Nivellen. This is interesting.”

“You think so?” said the monster, scratching himself between the ears with a rasping sound. “All right. The next one, Primula, was the daughter of an impoverished knight. The knight, when he got here, had a skinny horse, a rusty cuirass and incredible debts. He was as hideous as cow dung, I tell you, Geralt, and spread a similar smell. Primula, I’d wager my right hand, was conceived while he was at war, as she was quite pretty. I didn’t frighten her either, which isn’t surprising, really, as compared to her parent I might have appeared quite comely. She had, as it turned out, quite a temperament and I, having gained some self-confidence, seized the moment by the horns. After two weeks Primula and I already had a very close relationship. She liked to pull me by the ears and shout, ‘Bite me to death, you animal!’ and ‘Tear me apart, you beast!’ and other equally idiotic things. I ran to the mirror in the breaks, but just imagine, Geralt, I looked at myself with growing anxiety. Less and less did I long to return to my former shape. You see, Geralt, I used to be a weakling and now I’d become a strapping fellow. I’d keep getting ill, I’d cough, my nose would run, but now I don’t catch anything. And my teeth? You wouldn’t believe how rotten my teeth had been! And now? I can bite through the leg of a chair. Do you want me to bite a chair leg?” “No, I don’t.”

“Maybe that’s good.” The monster opened his mouth wide. “My showing-off used to amuse the girls and there aren’t many whole chairs left in the house.” Nivellen yawned, his enormous tongue rolling up into a tube.

“This talking has made me tired, Geralt. Briefly: there were two after Primula, Ilka and Venimira. Everything happened in the same way, to the point of boredom. First, a mixture of fear and reserve, then a thread of sympathy thy reinforced by small but precious gifts, then ‘Bite me, eat me up,’ Daddy’s return, a tender farewell and an increasingly discernible depletion of the treasury. I decided to take longer breaks to be alone. Of-course, I’d long ago stopped believing that a virgin’s kiss would transform the way I looked. And I’d come to terms with it. And, what’s more, I’d come to the conclusion that things were fine as they were and that there wasn’t any need for changes.” “Really? No changes, Nivellen?”

“It’s true. I have a horse’s health, which came with the way I look, for one. Secondly, my being different works on girls like an aphrodisiac. Don’t laugh! I’m certain that as a human, I’d have to give a mighty good chase to get at a girl like, for example, Venimira, who was an extremely beautiful maid. I don’t suppose she’d have glanced twice at the fellow in the portrait. And thirdly: safety. Father had enemies, and a couple of them had survived. People whom the crew, under my pitiful leadership, had sent to their graves, had relatives. There’s gold in the cellar. If it wasn’t for the fear inspired by me, somebody would come and get it, if only peasants with pitchforks.” “You seem quite sure,” Geralt remarked, playing with an empty chalice, “that you haven’t offended anyone in your present shape. No father, no daughter. No relative or daughter’s betrothed—” “Leave off, Geralt.” Nivellen was indignant. “What are you talking about? The fathers couldn’t contain themselves for joy. I told you, I was incredibly generous. And the daughters? You didn’t see them when they got here in their dresses of sackcloth, their little hands raw from washing, their shoulders stooped from carrying buckets. Even after two weeks with me, Primula still had marks on her back and thighs from the strap her knightly father had beaten her with. They walked around like princesses here, carried nothing but a fan and didn’t even know where the kitchen was. I dressed them up and covered them with trinkets. At the click of a finger, I’d conjure up hot water in the tin bath Father had plundered for my mother at Assengard. Can you imagine? A tin bath! There’s hardly a regent, what am I saying, hardly a lord who’s got a tin bath at home. This was a house from a fairy tale for them, Geralt. And as far as bed is concerned, well…Pox on it, virtue is rarer today than a rock dragon. I didn’t force any of them, Geralt.” “But you suspected someone had paid me to kill you. Who would have?”

“A scoundrel who wanted the contents of my cellar but didn’t have any more daughters,” Nivellen said emphatically. “Human greed knows no limits.” “And nobody else?”

“And nobody else.”

They both remained silent, gazing at the nervous flicker of the candle flames.

“Nivellen,” said the witcher suddenly, “are you alone now?”

“Witcher,” answered the monster after a moment’s hesitation, “I think that, in principle, I ought to insult you, take you by the neck and throw you down the stairs. Do you know why? Because you treat me like a dimwit. I noticed how you’ve been cocking your ears and glancing at the door. You know perfectly well that I don’t live alone. Am I right?” “You are. I’m sorry.”

“Pox on your apologies. Have you seen her?”

“Yes. In the forest, by the gate. Is she why merchants and daughters have been leaving here empty-handed for some time?” “So you know about that too? Yes, she’s the reason.”

“Do you mind if I ask whether—”

“Yes, I do mind.”

Silence again.

“Oh well, it’s up to you,” the witcher finally said, getting up. “Thanks for your hospitality, dear host. Time I was on my way.” “Quite right.” Nivellen also got up. “For certain reasons, I can’t offer you a room in the manor for the night, and I don’t encourage you to spend the night in these woods. Ever since the area’s been deserted, it’s been bad at night here. You ought to get back to the highway before dusk.” “I’ll bear that in mind, Nivellen. Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

The monster looked at him askance. “You think you could help me? You’d be able to lift this from me?” “I wasn’t only thinking about that sort of help.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Although…you probably did. You wouldn’t be able to.” Geralt looked him straight in the eyes. “You had some bad luck,” he said. “Of all the temples in Gelibol and the Nimnar Valley, you picked the Church of Coram Agh Tera, the Lionheaded Spider. In order to lift the curse thrown by the priestess of Coram Agh Tera, you need knowledge and powers which I don’t possess.” “And who does?”

“So you are interested after all? You said things were fine as they are.”

“As they are, yes. But not as they might be. I’m afraid that—”

“What are you afraid of?”

The monster stopped at the door to the room and turned. “I’ve had enough of your questions, witcher, which you keep asking instead of answering mine. Obviously, you’ve got to be asked in the right way. Listen. For some time now I’ve had hideous dreams. Maybe the word ‘monstrous’ would be more accurate. Am I right to be afraid? Briefly, please.” “Have you ever had muddy feet after waking from such a dream? Conifer needles in your sheets?” “No.”

“And have—”

“No. Briefly, please.”

“You’re rightly afraid.”

“Can anything be done about it? Briefly, please.”

“No.”

“Finally. Let’s go. I’ll see you out.”

In the courtyard, as Geralt was adjusting the saddlebags, Nivellen stroked the mare’s nostrils and patted her neck. Roach, pleased with the caress, lowered her head.

“Animals like me,” boasted the monster. “And I like them, too. My cat, Glutton, ran away at the beginning but she came back later. For a long time, she was the only living creature who kept me company in my misfortune. Vereena, too—” He broke off with a grimace.

Geralt smiled. “Does she like cats too?”

“Birds.” Nivellen bared his teeth. “I gave myself away, pox on it. But what’s the harm. She isn’t another merchant’s daughter, Geralt, or another attempt to find a grain of truth in old folk tales. It’s serious. We love each other. If you laugh, I’ll sock you one.” Geralt didn’t laugh. “You know your Vereena,” he said, “is probably a rusalka?”

“I suspected as much. Slim. Dark. She rarely speaks, and in a language I don’t know. She doesn’t eat human food. She disappears into the forest for days on end, then comes back. Is that typical?” “More or less.” The witcher tightened Roach’s girth-strap. “No doubt you think she wouldn’t return if you were to become human?” “I’m sure of it. You know how frightened rusalkas are of people. Hardly anybody’s seen a rusalka from up close. But Vereena and I…Pox on it! Take care, Geralt.” “Take care, Nivellen.” The witcher prodded the mare in the side with his heel and made toward the gate. The monster shuffled along at his side.

“Geralt?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not as stupid as you think. You came here following the tracks of one of the merchants who’d been here lately. Has something happened to one of them?” “Yes.”

“The last was here three days ago. With his daughter, not one of the prettiest, by the way. I commanded the house to close all its doors and shutters and give no sign of life. They wandered around the courtyard and left. The girl picked a rose from my aunt’s rosebush and pinned it to her dress. Look for them somewhere else. But be careful; this is a horrible area. I told you that the forest isn’t the safest of places at night. Ugly things are heard and seen.” “Thanks, Nivellen. I’ll remember about you. Who knows, maybe I’ll find someone who—” “Maybe yes. And maybe no. It’s my problem, Geralt, my life and my punishment. I’ve learned to put up with it. I’ve got used to it. If it gets worse, I’ll get used to that too. And if it gets far worse, don’t look for anybody. Come here yourself and put an end to it. As a witcher. Take care, Geralt.” Nivellen turned and marched briskly toward the manor. He didn’t look round again.

III

The area was deserted, wild and ominously inhospitable. Geralt didn’t return to the highway before dusk; he didn’t want to take a roundabout route, so he took a shortcut through the forest. He spent the night on the bare summit of a high hill, his sword on his knees, beside a tiny campfire into which, every now and then, he threw wisps of monkshood. In the middle of the night he noticed the glow of a fire far away in the valley; he heard mad howling and singing and a sound which could only have been the screaming of a tortured woman. When dawn had barely broken, he made his way there to find nothing but a trampled glade and charred bones in still-warm ashes. Something sitting in the crown of an enormous oak shrieked and hissed. It could have been a harpy, or an ordinary wildcat. The witcher didn’t stop to check.

IV

About midday, while Roach was drinking at a spring, the mare neighed piercingly and backed away, baring her yellow teeth and chewing her bit. Geralt calmed her with the Sign. Then he noticed a regular ring formed by the caps of reddish mushrooms peering from the moss.

“You’re becoming a real hysteric, Roach,” he said. “This is just an ordinary devil’s ring. What’s the fuss?” The mare snorted, turning her head toward him. The witcher rubbed his forehead, frowned and grew thoughtful. Then he leapt into the saddle, turned the horse around and started back, following his own tracks.

“Animals like me,” he muttered. “Sorry, Roach. It turns out you’ve got more brains than me!” V

The mare flattened her ears against her skull and snorted, throwing up earth with her hooves; she didn’t want to go. Geralt didn’t calm her with the Sign; he jumped from the saddle and threw the reins over the horse’s head. He no longer had his old sword in its lizard-skin sheath on his back; its place was filled with a shining, beautiful weapon with a cruciform and slender, well-weighted hilt, ending in a spherical pommel made of white metal.

This time the gate didn’t open for him. It was already open, just as he had left it.

He heard singing. He didn’t understand the words; he couldn’t even identify the language. He didn’t need to—the witcher felt and understood the very nature, the essence, of this quiet, piercing song which flowed through the veins in a wave of nauseous, overpowering menace.

The singing broke off abruptly, and then he saw her.

She was clinging to the back of the dolphin in the dried-up fountain, embracing the moss-overgrown stone with her tiny hands, so pale they seemed transparent. Beneath her storm of tangled black hair shone huge, wide-open eyes the color of anthracite.

Geralt slowly drew closer, his step soft and springy, tracing a semi-circle from the wall and blue rosebush. The creature glued to the dolphin’s back followed him with her eyes, turning her petite face with an expression of longing, and full of charm. He could still hear her song, even though her thin, pale lips were held tight and not the slightest sound emerged from them.

The witcher halted at a distance of ten paces. His sword, slowly drawn from its black enameled sheath, glistened and glowed above his head.

“It’s silver,” he said. “This blade is silver.”

The pale little face did not flinch; the anthracite eyes did not change expression.

“You’re so like a rusalka,” the witcher continued calmly, “that you could deceive anyone. All the more as you’re a rare bird, black-haired one. But horses are never mistaken. They recognize creatures like you instinctively and perfectly. What are you? I think you’re a moola, or an alpor. An ordinary vampire couldn’t come out in the sun.” The corners of the pale lips quivered and turned up a little.

“Nivellen attracted you with that shape of his, didn’t he? You evoked his dreams. I can guess what sort of dreams they were, and I pity him.” The creature didn’t move.

“You like birds,” continued the witcher. “But that doesn’t stop you biting the necks of people of both sexes, does it? You and Nivellen, indeed! A beautiful couple you’d make, a monster and a vampire, rulers of a ‘ forest castle. You’d dominate the whole area in a flash. You, eternally thirsty for blood, and he, your guardian, a murderer at your service, a blind tool. But first he had to become a true monster, not a human being in a monster’s mask.” The huge black eyes narrowed.

“Where is he, black-haired one? You were singing, so you’ve drunk some blood. You’ve taken the ultimate measure, which means you haven’t managed to enslave his mind. Am I right?” The black-tressed head nodded slightly, almost imperceptibly, and the corners of the mouth turned up even more. The tiny little face took on an eerie expression.

“No doubt you consider yourself the lady of this manor now?”

A nod, this time clearer.

“Are you a moola?”

A slow shake of the head. The hiss which reverberated through his bones could only have come from the pale, ghastly, smiling lips, although the witcher didn’t see them move.

“Alpor?”

Denial.

The witcher backed away and clasped the hilt of his sword tighter. “That means you’re—” The corners of the lips started to turn up higher and higher; the lips flew open… “A bruxa!” the witcher shouted, throwing himself toward the fountain.

From behind the pale lips glistened white, spiky fangs. The vampire jumped up, arched her back like a leopard and screamed.

The wave of sound hit the witcher like a battering ram, depriving him of breath, crushing his ribs, piercing his ears and brain with thorns of pain. Flying backward, he just managed to cross his wrists in the Sign of Heliotrop. The spell cushioned some of his impact with the wall but even so, the world grew dark and the remainder of his breath burst from his lungs in a groan.

On the dolphin’s back, in the stone circle of the dried-up fountain where a dainty girl in a white dress had sat just a moment ago, an enormous black bat flattened its glossy body, opening its long, narrow jaws wide, revealing rows of needle-like white teeth. The membranous wings spread and flapped silently, and the creature charged at the witcher like an arrow fired from a crossbow.

Geralt, with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, shouted a spell and threw his hand, fingers spread in the Sign of Quen, out in front of him. The bat, hissing, turned abruptly, then chuckled and veered up into the air before diving down vertically, straight at the nape of the witcher’s neck. Geralt jumped aside, slashed, and missed. The bat, smoothly, gracefully drew in a wing, circled around him and attacked anew, opening its eyeless, toothed snout wide. Geralt waited, sword held with both hands, always pointed in the creature’s direction. At the last moment, he jumped—not to the side but forward, dealing a swinging cut which made the air howl.

He missed. It was so unexpected that he lost his rhythm and dodged a fraction of a second too late. He felt the beast’s talons tear his cheek, and a damp velvety wing slapped against his neck. He curled up on the spot, transferred the weight of his body to his right leg and slashed backward sharply, missing the amazingly agile creature again.

The bat beat its wings, soared up and glided toward the fountain. As the crooked claws scraped against the stone casing, the monstrous, slobbering snout was already blurring, morphing, disappearing, although the pale little lips which were taking its place couldn’t quite hide the murderous fangs.

The bruxa howled piercingly, modulating her voice into a macabre tune, glared at the witcher with eyes full of hatred, and screamed again.

The sound wave was so powerful it broke through the Sign. Black and red circles spun in Geralt’s eyes; his temples and the crown of his head throbbed. Through the pain drilling in his ears, he began to hear voices wailing and moaning, the sound of flute and oboe, the rustle of a gale. The skin on his face grew numb and cold. He fell to one knee and shook his head.

The black bat floated toward him silently, opening its toothy jaws. Geralt, still stunned by the scream, reacted instinctively. He jumped up and, in a flash, matching the tempo of his movements to the speed of the monster’s flight, took three steps forward, dodged, turned a semi-circle and then, quick as a thought, delivered a two-handed blow. The blade met with no resistance…almost no resistance. He heard a scream, but this time it was a scream of pain, caused by the touch of silver.

The wailing bruxa was morphing on the dolphin’s back. On her white dress, slightly above her left breast, a red stain was visible beneath a slash no longer than a little finger. The witcher ground his teeth—the cut, which should have sundered the beast in two, had been nothing but a scratch.

“Shout, vampire,” he growled, wiping the blood from his cheek. “Scream your guts out. Lose your strength. And then I’ll slash your pretty little head off!” You. You will be the first to grow weak, Sorcerer. I will kill you.

The bruxa’s lips didn’t move, but the witcher heard the words clearly; they resounded in his mind, echoing and reverberating as if underwater.

“We shall see,” he muttered through his teeth as he walked, bent over, in the direction of the fountain.

I will kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.

“We shall see.”

“Vereena!” Nivellen, his head hanging low and both hands clinging to the doorframe, stumbled from the mansion. He staggered toward the fountain, waving his paws unsteadily. Blood stained the cuff of his tunic.

“Vereena!” he roared again.

The bruxa jerked her head in his direction. Geralt, raising his sword to strike, jumped toward her, but the vampire’s reaction was much faster. A sharp scream and another sound wave knocked the witcher from his feet. He tumbled onto his back and scraped against the gravel of the path. The bruxa arched and tensed to jump, her fangs flashing like daggers. Nivellen, spreading his paws like a bear, tried to grab her but she screamed straight into his face, throwing him back against the wooden scaffolding under the wall, which broke with a sharp crash and buried him beneath a stack of timber.

Geralt was already on his feet, running, tracing a semi-circle around the courtyard, trying to draw the bruxa’s attention away from Nivellen. The vampire, fluttering her white dress, scurried straight at him, light as a butterfly, barely touching the ground. She was no longer screaming, no longer trying to morph. The witcher knew she was tired, and that she was still lethal. Behind Geralt’s back, Nivellen was clattering under the scaffolding, roaring.

Geralt leapt to the left, executing a short moulinet with his sword to confuse the bruxa gliding toward him—white and black, windblown, terrible. He’d underestimated her. She screamed. He didn’t make the Sign in time, flew backward until he thumped against the wall. The pain in his spine shot all the way to the tips of his fingers, paralyzed his shoulders, cut him down at the legs. He fell to his knees. The bruxa, wailing melodiously, jumped toward him.

“Vereena!” roared Nivellen.

She turned—and Nivellen forced the sharp broken end of a three-meter-long pole between her breasts. She didn’t shout. She only sighed.

The witcher shook, hearing this sigh.

They stood there: Nivellen, on widespread legs, was wielding the pole in both hands, one end firmly secured under his arm.

The bruxa, like a white butterfly on a pin, hung on the other end of the stake, clutching it with both hands. The vampire exhaled excruciatingly and suddenly pressed herself hard against the stake.

Geralt watched a red stain bloom on her back, on the white dress through which the broken tip emerged in a geyser of blood: hideous, almost obscene. Nivellen screamed, took one step back, then another, retreating from her, but he didn’t let go of the pole and dragged the bruxa behind him. One more step and he leaned back against the mansion. The end of the pole scraped against the wall.

Slowly, as if a caress, the bruxa moved her tiny hands along the stake, stretched her arms out to their full length, grasped the pole hard and pulled on it again. Over a meter of bloodied wood already protruded from her back. Her eyes were wide open, her head flung back. Her sighs became more frequent and rhythmic, turning into a ruckling wheeze.

Geralt stood but, fascinated by the scene, still couldn’t make himself act. He heard words resounding dully within his skull, as if echoing around a cold, damp dungeon.

Mine. Or nobody’s. I love you. Love you.

Another terrible, vibrating sigh, choking in blood. The bruxa moved further along the pole and stretched out her arms. Nivellen roared desperately and, without letting go of the stake, tried to push the vampire as far from himself as possible—but in vain. She pulled herself closer and grabbed him by the head. He wailed horrifically and tossed his hairy head. The bruxa moved along the pole again and tilted her head toward Nivellen’s throat. The fangs flashed a blinding white.

Geralt jumped. Every move he made, every step, was part of his nature: hard-learned, automatic and lethally sure. Three quick steps, and the third, like a hundred such steps before, finished on the left leg with a strong, firm stamp. A twist of his torso and a sharp, forceful cut. He saw her eyes. Nothing could change now. He heard the voice. Nothing. He yelled, to drown the word which she was repeating. Nothing could change. He cut.

He struck decisively, like hundreds of times before, with the center of the blade, and immediately, following the rhythm of the movement, took a fourth step and half a turn. The blade, freed by the half-turn, floated after him, shining, drawing a fan of red droplets in its wake. The streaming raven-black hair floated in the air, floated, floated, floated… The head fell onto the gravel.

There are fewer and fewer monsters?

And I? What am I?

Who’s shouting? The birds?

The woman in a sheepskin jacket and blue dress?

The roses from Nazair?

How quiet!

How empty. What emptiness.

Within me.

Nivellen, curled up in a bundle, sheltering his head in his arms and shaking with twitches and shivers, was lying in the nettles by the manor wall.

“Get up,” said the witcher.

The young, handsome, well-built man with a pale complexion lying by the wall raised his head and looked around. His eyes were vague. He rubbed them with his knuckles. He looked at his hands, felt his face. He moaned quietly and, putting his finger in his mouth, ran it along his gums for a long time. He grasped his face again and moaned as he touched the four bloody, swollen streaks on his cheek. He burst out sobbing, then laughed.

“Geralt! How come? How did this—Geralt!”

“Get up, Nivellen. Get up and come along. I’ve got some medicine in my saddlebags. We both need it.” “I’ve no longer got…I haven’t, have I? Geralt? Why?”

The witcher helped him get up, trying not to look at the tiny hands—so pale as to be transparent—clenched around the pole stuck between the small breasts which were now plastered with a wet red fabric.

Nivellen moaned again. “Vereena—”

“Don’t look. Let’s go.”

They crossed the courtyard, holding each other up, and passed the blue rosebush.

Nivellen kept touching his face with his free hand. “Incredible, Geralt. After so many years? How’s it possible?” “There’s a grain of truth in every fairy tale,” said the witcher quietly. “Love and blood. They both possess a mighty power. Wizards and learned men have been racking their brains over this for years, but they haven’t arrived at anything except that—” “That what, Geralt?”

“It has to be true love.”