Geralt turned around. Braenn, examining her bow, glanced at him.

‘Listen, Braenn…’

‘What?’

‘Is it possible… Is it possible she… has escaped from Duén Canell?’

‘Eh?’

‘Don’t play dumb,’ he said, annoyed. ‘I know you abduct little girls. And you? What, did you fall from the sky into Brokilon? I’m asking if it’s possible…’

‘No,’ the dryad cut him off. ‘I have never seen her before.’

Geralt looked at the little girl. Her ashen-grey hair was dishevelled, full of pine needles and small leaves, but smelled of cleanliness, not smoke, nor the cowshed, nor tallow. Her hands, although incredibly dirty, were small and delicate, without scars or calluses. The boy’s clothes, the jacket with a red hood she had on, did not indicate anything, but her high boots were made of soft, expensive calfskin. No, she was certainly not a village child. Frexinet, the Witcher suddenly thought. This was the one that Frexinet was looking for. He’d followed her into Brokilon.

‘Where are you from? I’m asking you, you scamp.’

‘How dare you talk to me like that!’ The little girl lifted her head haughtily and stamped her foot. The soft moss completely spoiled the effect.

‘Ha,’ the Witcher said, and smiled. ‘A princess, indeed. At least in speech, for your appearance is wretched. You’re from Verden, aren’t you? Do you know you’re being looked for? Don’t worry, I’ll deliver you home. Listen, Braenn…’

The moment he looked away the girl turned very quickly on her heel and ran off through the forest, across the gentle hillside.

‘Bloede dungh!’ the dryad yelled, reaching for her quiver. ‘Caemm aere!’

The little girl, stumbling, rushed blindly through the forest, crunching over dry branches.

‘Stop!’ shouted Geralt. ‘Where are you bloody going!?’

Braenn bent her bow in a flash. The arrow hissed venomously, describing a flat parabola, and the arrowhead thudded into the tree trunk, almost brushing the little girl’s hair. The girl cringed and flattened herself to the ground.

‘You bloody fool,’ the Witcher hissed, hurrying over to the dryad. Braenn deftly drew another arrow from her quiver. ‘You might have killed her!’

‘This is Brokilon,’ she said proudly.

‘But she’s only a child!’

‘What of it?’

He looked at the arrow’s shaft. It had striped fletchings made from a pheasant’s flight feathers dyed yellow in a decoction of tree bark. He did not say a word. He turned around and went quickly into the forest. The little girl was lying beneath the tree, cowering, cautiously raising her head and looking at the arrow stuck into the tree. She heard his steps and leaped to her feet, but he reached her with a single bound and seized her by the red hood of her jacket. She turned her head and looked at him, then at his hand, holding her hood. He released her.

‘Why did you run away?’

‘None of your business,’ she sniffed. ‘Leave me alone, you, you—’

‘Foolish brat,’ he hissed furiously. ‘This is Brokilon. Wasn’t the myriapod enough? You wouldn’t last till morning in this forest. Haven’t you got it yet?’