‘T’en thesse in meáth aep Eithné llev?’ she asked, coming over. Her voice was extremely melodious and her eyes huge and black. ‘Ess’ Gwynbleidd?’

‘Aé… aesseá…’ he began, but the words in the Brokilon dialect, which sounded like singing in the dryad’s mouth, stuck in his throat and made his lips itchy. ‘Do none of you know the Common Speech? I don’t speak your—’

‘An’ váill. Vort llinge,’ she cut him off.

‘I am Gwynbleidd. White Wolf. Lady Eithné knows me. I am travelling to her as an envoy. I have been in Brokilon before. In Duén Canell.’

‘Gwynbleidd.’ The redhead narrowed her eyes. ‘Vatt’ghern?’

‘Yes,’ he confirmed. ‘The Witcher.’

The olive-haired one snorted angrily, but lowered her bow. The red-haired one looked at him with eyes wide open, but her face–smeared with green stripes–was quite motionless, expressionless, like that of a statue. The immobility meant her face could not be categorised as pretty or ugly. Instead of such classification, a thought came to him about indifference and heartlessness, not to say cruelty. Geralt reproached himself for that judgement, catching himself mistakenly humanising the dryad. He ought to have known, after all, that she was older than the other two. In spite of appearances she was much, much older than them.

They stood in indecisive silence. Geralt heard Frexinet moaning, groaning and coughing. The red-haired one must also have heard, but her face did not even twitch. The Witcher rested his hands on his hips.

‘There’s a wounded man over there in the tree hole,’ he said calmly. ‘He will die if he doesn’t receive aid.’

‘Tháess aep!’ the olive-haired one snapped, bending her bow and aiming the arrowhead straight at his face.

‘Will you let him die like a dog?’ he said, not raising his voice. ‘Will you leave him to drown slowly in his own blood? In that case better to put him out of his misery.’

‘Be silent!’ the dryad barked, switching to the Common Speech. But she lowered her bow and released the tension on the bowstring. She looked at the other questioningly. The red-haired one nodded, indicating the tree hollow. The olive-haired one ran over, quickly and silently.

‘I want to see Lady Eithné,’ Geralt repeated. ‘I’m on a diplomatic mission…’

‘She,’ the red-haired one pointed to the honey-haired one, ‘will lead you to Duén Canell. Go.’

‘Frex… And the wounded man?’

The dryad looked at him, squinting. She was still fiddling with the nocked arrow.

‘Do not worry,’ she said. ‘Go. She will lead you there.’

‘But…’

‘Va’en vort!’ She cut him off, her lips tightening.

He shrugged and turned towards the one with the hair the colour of honey. She seemed the youngest of the three, but he might have been mistaken. He noticed she had blue eyes.

‘Then let us go.’

‘Yes,’ the honey-coloured haired one said softly. After a short moment of hesitation she handed him his sword. ‘Let us go.’

‘What is your name?’ he asked. ‘Be silent.’

She moved very swiftly through the dense forest, not looking back. Geralt had to exert himself to keep up with her. He knew the dryad was doing it deliberately, knew that she wanted the man following her to get stuck, groaning, in the undergrowth, or to fall to the ground exhausted, incapable of going on. She did not know, of course, that she was dealing with a witcher, not a man. She was too young to know what a witcher was.