“I don’t know what to admire more; your talent for mimicry or your memory,” Geralt snorted. “Returning, meanwhile, to the issue of interest to us: meteorites, which our good Fiddle-Faddle termed falling stars, Siderea Cadens, or something like that, break off from the firmament and fall downwards, to burrow into our good old earth. Along the way, meanwhile, they penetrate all the other planes, that is the elemental planes, as well as the para-elemental planes, for such are also said to exist. The elements and para-elements are imbued, as is known, with powerful energy, the source of all magic and supernatural force, and the meteorite penetrating them absorbs and retains that energy. Steel smelted from a meteorite—and also blades forged from such steel—contains a great deal of such elements. It’s magical. The entire sword is magical. Quod erat demonstrandum. Do you understand?”

“Certainly.”

“So forget it. Because it’s poppycock.”

“What?”

“Poppycock. Fabrication. You don’t find meteorites under every bush. More than half the swords used by witchers were made from steel from magnetic ores. I used them myself. They are as good as the ones that fell from the sky when it comes to the siderites penetrating the elements. There is absolutely no difference. But keep it to yourself, Dandelion, please. Don’t tell anyone.”

“What? I’m to stay silent? You can’t demand that! What’s the point of knowing something if you can’t show off the knowledge?”

“Please. I’d prefer to be thought of as a supernatural creature armed with a supernatural weapon. They hire me to be that and pay me to be that. Normality, meanwhile, is the same as banality, and banality is cheap. So I ask you to keep your trap shut. Promise?”

“Have it your way. I promise.”

* * *

They recognised the rock called the Gryphon at once; it was visible a long way off.

Indeed, with a little imagination, it could be interpreted as a gryphon’s head set on a long neck. However—as Dandelion observed—it more resembled the fingerboard of a lute or another stringed instrument.

The Gryphon, as it turned out, was an inselberg dominating a gigantic crater. The crater—Geralt recalled the story—was called the Elven Fortress, because of its fairly regular shape, which suggested the ruins of an ancient building, with walls, towers, bastions and all the rest. There had never been any fortress there, elven or other. The shapes of the crater were a work of nature—a fascinating work, admittedly.

“Down there.” Dandelion pointed, standing up in his stirrups. “Do you see? That’s our destination. Ravelin.”

And the name was particularly apt, as the inselberg described the astonishingly regular shape of a large triangle, extending out from the Elven Fortress like a bastion. A building resembling a fort rose up inside the triangle. Surrounded by something like a walled, fortified camp.

Geralt recalled the rumours circulating about Ravelin. And about the person who dwelt there.