“Both Harlan and I were asked to tender our resignation, at our own request, by virtue of our state of health. We left Rissberg and we’ll never return there. Harlan is going to Poviss to serve King Rhyd. And I’m inclined to continue travelling. In the Empire of Nilfgaard, I hear, they treat mages functionally and without undue respect. But they pay them well. And while we’re on the subject of Nilfgaard… I almost forgot. I have a farewell gift for you, Witcher.”

He undid his baldric, wrapped it around the scabbard and handed the sword to Geralt.

“It’s for you,” he said before the Witcher could speak. “I received it on my sixteenth birthday. From my father, who couldn’t get over the fact that I’d decided to study magic. He hoped the gift would influence me and that as the owner of such a weapon I would feel obliged to continue the family tradition and choose a military career. Why, I disappointed my father. In everything. I didn’t like hunting, I preferred angling. I didn’t marry the only daughter of his closest friend. I didn’t become a military man, and the sword gathered dust in a cupboard. I have no need of it. It will serve you better.”

“But… Pinety…”

“Take it, don’t make a fuss. I know your swords went missing and you’re in need.”

Geralt grasped the lizard-skin hilt and drew the blade halfway out of the scabbard. One inch above the cross guard, he saw a punch in the shape of the sun in its glory with sixteen rays, alternating straight and wavy, symbolising heraldically the light and heat of the sun. A beautifully executed inscription in stylised lettering—a famous trademark—began two inches beyond the sun.

“A blade from Viroleda.” The Witcher stated a fact. “This time authentic.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, nothing. I’m admiring it. And I still don’t know if I can accept it…”

“You can. In principle, you already have received it, since you’re holding it. Hell’s bells, don’t make a fuss, I said. I’m giving you the sword because I like you. So that you’ll realise not every sorcerer has it in for you. Anyway, fishing rods are more use to me. The rivers are beautiful and crystal clear in Nilfgaard, there’s plenty of trout and salmon in them.”

“Thank you. Pinety?”

“Yes?”

“Are you giving me the sword purely because of liking me?”

“Why, because I like you, indeed.” The sorcerer lowered his voice. “But perhaps not only. What does it bother me what happens here and what purposes that sword will serve? I’m leaving these parts, never to return. You see that splendid galleon lying at anchor? It’s Euryale, its home port is Baccalá. I sail the day after tomorrow.”

“You arrived a little early.”