“Master Ortolan.” Pinety bowed slightly. “Let me introduce to you Geralt of Rivia. The Witcher.”

Ortolan’s appearance didn’t surprise Geralt. It was believed he was the world’s oldest living sorcerer. Perhaps that was really true, perhaps not, but the fact remained that Ortolan was the oldest-looking sorcerer. This was strange, in so far as Ortolan was the inventor of a celebrated mandrake decoction, an elixir used by sorcerers in order to arrest the ageing process. Ortolan himself, when he had finally developed a reliably acting formula for the magical liquid, didn’t gain much benefit from it, because by then he was quite advanced in age. The elixir prevented ageing, but by no means rejuvenated. For which reason Ortolan too, although he had used the remedy for a long time, continued to look like an old codger—particularly when compared to his confraters: venerable sorcerers, who resembled men in the prime of life, and his consorors: world-weary sorceresses, who looked like maids. The sorceresses bursting with youth and charm and the slightly grey-haired sorcerers, whose real dates of birth had vanished in the mists of time, jealously guarded the secrets of Ortolan’s elixir, and sometimes quite simply even denied its existence. Meanwhile, they kept Ortolan convinced that the elixir was generally available, owing to which humanity was practically immortal and—consequently—absolutely happy.

“Geralt of Rivia,” repeated Ortolan, crushing a tuft of his grey beard in his hand. “Indeed, indeed, we have heard. The Witcher. A defender, they say, a guardian, protecting people from Evil. A prophylactic agent and esteemed antidote to all fearsome Evil.”

Geralt assumed a modest expression and bowed.

“Indeed, indeed…” continued the mage, tugging at his beard. “We know, we know. According to all testimony you spare not your strength to defend folk, my boy, you spare it not. And your practice is verily estimable, your craft is estimable. We welcome you to our castle, content that the fates brought you here. For though you may not know it yourself, you have returned like a bird to its nest… Verily, like a bird. We are glad to see you and trust that you also are glad to see us. Eh?”

Geralt was undecided about how to address Ortolan. Sorcerers didn’t recognise polite forms and didn’t expect them from others. But he didn’t know if that was acceptable with regard to a grey-haired and grey-bearded old man, and a living legend to boot. Instead of speaking, he bowed again.

Pinety introduced the sorcerers seated at the table in turn. Geralt had heard of some of them.