Mozaïk didn’t reply. Yennefer also said nothing and twisted a lock of black hair around a finger. She suddenly raised her head and looked the girl in the eyes. And smiled.

“He ordered you to return to me,” said Lytta Neyd. “He ordered you to return, although he could imagine what might be awaiting you. I must admit I’d have never expected that of him.”

The fountain splashed, the basin smelled of wet stone. There was a scent of flowers and ivy.

“I find it astonishing,” Lytta repeated. “I’d never have expected it of him.”

“Because you didn’t know him, Coral,” Yennefer replied calmly. “You didn’t know him at all.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

The stable boy had been given half a crown the evening before and the horses were waiting saddled. Dandelion yawned and scratched the back of his neck.

“Ye gods, Geralt… Do we really have to start this early? I mean it’s still dark…”

“It isn’t dark. It’s just right. The sun will rise in an hour at the latest.”

“Not for another hour,” said Dandelion, clambering onto the saddle of his gelding. “So I could have slept another one…”

Geralt leaped into the saddle and after a moment’s thought handed the stable boy another half-crown.

“It’s August,” he said. “There are some fourteen hours between sunrise to sunset. I’d like to ride as far as possible in that time.”

Dandelion yawned. And only then seemed to see the unsaddled dapple-grey mare standing in the next stall. The mare shook its head as though wanting to attract their attention.

“Just a minute,” the poet wondered. “And her? Mozaïk?”

“She’s not riding any further with us. We’re parting.”

“What? I don’t understand… Would you be so kind as to explain…?”

“No I wouldn’t. Not now. Let’s ride, Dandelion.”

“Do you really know what you’re doing? Are you fully aware?”

“No. Not fully. Not another word, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go.”

Dandelion sighed. And spurred on the gelding. He looked back. And sighed again. He was a poet so he could sigh as much as he liked.

The Secret and Whisper inn looked quite pretty against the daybreak, in the misty glow of the dawn. For all the world like a fairy castle, a sylvan temple of secret love drowning in hollyhocks, cloaked in bindweed and ivy. The poet fell into a reverie.

He sighed, yawned, hawked, spat, wrapped himself in his cloak and spurred on his horse. Owing to those few moments of reflection he fell behind. Geralt was barely visible in the fog.

The Witcher rode hard. And didn’t look back.

* * *

“Here’s the wine,” said the innkeeper, putting an earthenware jug on the table. “Apple wine from Rivia, as requested. My wife asked me to ask you how you’re finding the pork.”