“That mare…” she said, so excited she was barely able to enunciate her words. “That mare is called Roach. Because all your horses bear that name. For you are Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher Geralt of Rivia.”

He looked long at her. And said nothing. Nimue also said nothing, eyes fixed on the ground.

“What year is it?”

“One thousand three hundred…” she said, raising her astonished eyes. “One thousand three hundred and seventy-three after the Revival.”

“If so—” the white-haired man wiped his face with his hand in his sleeve “—Geralt of Rivia has been dead for many years. He died a hundred and five years ago. But I think he would be happy, if… He’d be happy if people remembered him after all those hundred and five years. If they remembered who he was. Why, even if they remembered the name of his horse. Yes, I think, he would be happy… If he could know it. Come. I’ll see you off.”

They walked on. Nimue bit her lip. Embarrassed, she decided not to say anything more.

“Ahead of us is a crossroads and the highway,” the white-haired man said, breaking the tense silence. “The road to Dorian. You’ll get there safely—”

“The Witcher Geralt didn’t die!” Nimue blurted out. “He only went away, went away to the Land of the Apple Trees. But he’ll return… He’ll return, because the legend says he will.”

“Legends. Fables. Fairy tales. Stories and romances. I might have guessed, Nimue from the village of Vyrva, who’s going to the school for sorceresses on the Isle of Thanedd. You wouldn’t have dared undertake such an insane quest had it not been for the legends and fairy tales you grew up on. But they’re just fairy tales, Nimue. Just fairy tales. You’ve come too far from home not to understand that.”

“The Witcher will return from the beyond!” Nimue wasn’t giving up. “He’ll return to protect people, so that Evil will never hold sway again. As long as darkness exists, witchers will be necessary. And darkness still exists!”

He said nothing, looking away. He finally turned towards her. And smiled.