‘Calm down.’

Braenn did not grace Frexinet with anything more than a fleeting glance. She walked over to Ciri, who was squatting beside the Witcher.

‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come, moppet.’

‘Where to?’ Ciri grimaced. ‘I’m not going. I want to be with Geralt.’

‘Go,’ the Witcher managed a smile. ‘You can play with Braenn and the young dryads. They’ll show you Duén Canell…’

‘She didn’t blindfold me,’ Ciri said very slowly. ‘She didn’t blindfold me while we were walking here. She blindfolded you. So you couldn’t find your way back here when you leave. That means…’

Geralt looked at Braenn. The dryad shrugged and then hugged the little girl tightly.

‘That means…’ Ciri’s voice suddenly cracked. ‘That means I’m not leaving here. Doesn’t it?’

‘No one can escape their destiny.’

All heads turned at the sound of that voice. Quiet, but sonorous, hard and decisive. A voice demanding obedience, which brooked no argument. Braenn bowed. Geralt went down on one knee.

‘Lady Eithné.’

The ruler of Brokilon was wearing a flowing, gauzy, light-green gown. Like most dryads she was small and slender, but her proudly raised head, grave, sharp-featured face and resolute mouth made her seem taller and more powerful. Her hair and eyes were the colour of molten silver.

She entered the shelter escorted by two younger dryads armed with bows. Without a word she nodded towards Braenn, who immediately took Ciri by the hand and pulled her towards the door, bowing her head low. Ciri trod stiffly and clumsily, pale and speechless. When they passed Eithné, the silver-haired dryad seized her swiftly beneath the chin, lifted it and looked long in the girl’s eyes. Geralt could see that Ciri was trembling.

‘Go,’ Eithné finally said. ‘Go, my child. Fear naught. Nothing is capable of changing your destiny. You are in Brokilon.’

Ciri followed Braenn obediently. In the doorway she turned around. The Witcher noticed that her mouth was quivering, and her green eyes were misty with tears. He didn’t say a word.

He continued to kneel, head bowed.

‘Get up, Gwynbleidd. Welcome.’

‘Greetings, Eithné, Lady of Brokilon.’

‘I have the pleasure to host you in my Forest once again. Although you come here without my knowledge or permission. Entering Brokilon without my knowledge or permission is perilous, White Wolf. Even for you.’

‘I come on a mission.’

‘Ah…’ the dryad smiled slightly. ‘That explains your boldness, which I shall not describe using other, more blunt words. Geralt, the inviolability of envoys is a custom observed by humans. I do not recognise it. I recognise nothing human. This is Brokilon.’

‘Eithné—’

‘Be silent,’ she interrupted, without raising her voice. ‘I ordered you to be spared. You will leave Brokilon alive. Not because you are an envoy. For other reasons.’

‘Are you not curious whose envoy I am? Where I come from, on whose behalf?’

‘Frankly speaking, no. This is Brokilon. You come here from the outside, from a world that concerns me not. Why then would I waste time listening to supplications? What could some kind of proposal, some kind of ultimatum, devised by someone who thinks and feels differently to me, mean to me? What could I care what King Venzlav thinks?’