The woman vanished. And a large fox slunk along the bough, dashed away and hid in the thicket. The animal seemed to be black and only the tip of its bushy tail white.

“She’s found us.” Addario Bach had also seen her. “The vixen has found us…”

“Blood and thunder—”

“Be quiet, both of you. Don’t spread panic.”

They glided on. Watched by pelicans from the dead trees on the banks.

INTERLUDE

A hundred and twenty-seven years later

“That’ll be Ivalo, miss, yonder, beyond the hillock,” said the merchant, pointing with his whip. “Half a furlong, no more, you’ll be there in a trice. I head eastwards towards Maribor at the crossroads, so the time has come to part. Farewell, may the gods lead you and watch over you on your way.”

“And over you, good sir,” said Nimue, hopping down from the wagon, taking her bundle and the rest of her things and then curtsying clumsily. “My sincere thanks for the ride on your wagon. Back there in the forest… My sincere thanks…”

She swallowed at the memory of the dark forest, deep into which the highway had led her for the last two days. At the memory of the huge, ghastly trees with their twisted boughs, entwined into a canopy above the deserted road. A road where she’d suddenly found herself all alone. At the memory of the horror that had seized her. And the memory of the desire to turn tail and fly. Home. Abandoning the preposterous thought of journeying into the world alone. And banishing that preposterous thought from her memory.

“My goodness, don’t thank me, it’s a trifle,” laughed the merchant. “Anyone would help a traveller. Farewell!”

“Farewell. I wish you a safe journey.”

She stood for a moment at the crossroads, looking at a stone post, polished to a smooth slipperiness by the wind and rain. It must have stood here for ages, she thought. Who knows, perhaps more than a hundred years? Perhaps this post remembers the Year of the Comet? The army of the northern kings, marching to Brenna, and the battle with Nilfgaard?

As every day, she repeated the route she’d learned by heart. Like a magical formula. Like a spell.

Vyrva, Guado, Sibell, Brugge, Casterfurt, Mortara, Ivalo, Dorian, Anchor, Gors Velen.

The town of Ivalo made itself known from a distance. By its noise and foul smell.

The forest ended at the crossroads. Further on, there was only a bare clearing, bristling with tree stumps, stretching out far away towards the horizon and the first buildings. Smoke was trailing everywhere. Rows of iron vats—retorts for making charcoal—were smoking. There was a smell of resin. The nearer the town, the louder grew the noise: a strange metallic clank, making the ground shudder perceptibly beneath her feet.