Rissberg looked neither menacing nor impressive. There it was, a small castle like many others, of average size, elegantly built into the mountain’s steep sides, hugging a cliff, its bright wall contrasting with the evergreen of a spruce forest, the tiles of two quadrangular towers—one tall, the other lower—overlooking the treetops. The wall surrounding the castle wasn’t—as it transpired from close up—too tall and wasn’t topped by battlements, while the small towers positioned at the corners and over the gatehouse were more decorative than defensive.

The road meandering around the hill bore the signs of intensive use. For it was used, and used intensively. The Witcher was soon overtaking carts, carriages, lone riders and pedestrians. Plenty of travellers were also moving in the opposite direction, away from the castle. Geralt guessed at the destination of these pilgrimages. Which was proved correct, it turned out, after he’d only just left the forest.

The flat hilltop beneath the curtain of the wall was occupied by a small town built of timber, reeds and straw; an entire complex of large and small buildings and roofs surrounded by a fence and enclosures for horses and livestock. There was a hubbub and people moved around briskly, like at a market or a fair. For it was indeed a fair, a bazaar, an open market; except neither poultry, fish nor vegetables were traded there. The goods on sale below the castle were magic—amulets, talismans, elixirs, opiates, philtres, decocts, extracts, distillates, concoctions, incense, syrups, scents, powders and ointments, as well as various practical enchanted objects, tools, domestic equipment, decorations, and even children’s toys. The whole assortment attracted purchasers in great numbers. There was demand, there was supply—and business was clearly flourishing.

The road divided. The Witcher headed along the path leading towards the castle gate, considerably less rutted than the other, which led the buyers towards the marketplace. He rode across the cobbled area in front of the gatehouse, along an avenue of menhirs specially set there, mostly considerably taller than him on his horse. He was soon greeted by a gate, more suited to a palace than a castle, decorated with pilasters and a pediment. The Witcher’s medallion vibrated powerfully. Roach neighed, her horseshoes clattering on the cobbles, and stopped abruptly.

“Identity and purpose of visit.”

He raised his head. A rasping and echoing voice, undoubtedly female, seemed to emerge from the wide-open mouth of the harpy’s head depicted on the tympanum. His medallion quivered and the mare snorted. Geralt felt a strange tightness at the temples.

“Identity and purpose of visit,” came the voice from the hole in the relief. A little louder than before.

“Geralt of Rivia, witcher. I’m expected.”

The harpy’s head uttered a sound resembling a trumpet call. The magic blocking the portal vanished, the pressure at his temples stopped at once, and the mare set off without being urged. Her hooves clattered on the stones.