There wasn’t a choice or an alternative, however. In accordance with the plan adopted at Rissberg, Geralt’s daily task was to patrol a selected region of the Hills and the settlements, colonies and homesteads there. Places where Pinety and Tzara feared another attack by the energumen. Settlements like that were spread over the entire Hills; sometimes quite far from each other. Geralt had to admit and accept the fact that effective patrolling wouldn’t have been possible without the help of teleportational magic.

To maintain secrecy, Pinety and Tzara had constructed the portals at the end of the Rissberg complex, in a large, empty, musty room in need of refurbishment, where cobwebs stuck to your face, and shrivelled up mouse droppings crunched under your boots. A spell was activated on a wall covered in damp patches and slimy marks and then the brightly shining outline of a door—or rather a gateway—appeared, beyond which whirled an opaque, iridescent glow. Geralt walked the blindfolded mare into the glow—and then things became unpleasant. There was a flash and he stopped seeing, hearing or feeling anything—apart from cold. Cold was the only thing felt inside the black nothingness, amid silence, amorphousness and timelessness, because the teleport dulled and extinguished all the other senses. Fortunately, only for a split second. The moment passed, the real world flared up, and the horse, snorting with terror, clattered its horseshoes on the hard ground of reality.

“The horse taking fright is understandable,” Tzara stated again. “While your anxiety, Witcher, is utterly irrational.”

Anxiety is never irrational, Geralt thought to himself. Aside from psychological disturbances. It was one of the first things novice witchers were taught. It’s good to feel fear. If you feel fear it means there’s something to be feared, so be vigilant. Fear doesn’t have to be overcome. Just don’t yield to it. And you can learn from it.

“Where to today?” asked Tzara, opening the lacquer box in which he kept his wand. “What region?”

“Dry Rocks.”

“Try to get to Maple Grove before sundown. Pinety or I will pick you up from there. Ready?”

“For anything.”

Tzara waved his hand and wand in the air as though conducting an orchestra and Geralt thought he could even hear music. The sorcerer melodiously chanted a long spell that sounded like a poem being recited. Flaming lines flared up on the wall, then linked up to form a shining, rectangular outline. The Witcher swore under his breath, calmed his pulsating medallion, jabbed the mare with his heels and rode her into the milky nothingness.

* * *

Blackness, silence, amorphousness, timelessness. Cold. And suddenly a flash and a shock, the thud of hooves on hard ground.

* * *