Geralt shook his head in astonishment.

‘How do you know I come from Venzlav?’

‘For it is obvious,’ the dryad said with a smile. ‘Ekkehard is too stupid. Ervyll and Viraxas detest me too much. No other realms border Brokilon.’

‘You know a great deal about what happens beyond Brokilon, Eithné.’

‘I know much, White Wolf. It is a privilege of my age. Now, though, if you permit, I would like to deal with a confidential matter. That man with the appearance of a bear,’ the dryad stopped smiling and looked at Frexinet. ‘Is he your friend?’

‘We are acquainted. I once removed a curse from him.’

‘The problem is,’ Eithné said coldly, ‘that I don’t know what to do with him. I cannot, after all, order him put to death. I have permitted him to recover his health, but he represents a threat. He does not look like a fanatic. Thus he must be a scalp-hunter. I know that Ervyll pays for every dryad scalp. I do not recall how much. In any case, the price rises as the value of money falls.’

‘You are in error. He is not a scalp-hunter.’

‘Why then did he enter Brokilon?’

‘To seek the girl-child whose care he was entrusted with. He risked his life to find her.’

‘Most foolish,’ Eithné said coldly. ‘Difficult to call it even a risk. He was heading for certain death. The fact that he lives at all he owes entirely to his iron constitution and endurance. As far as the child is concerned, it also survived by chance. My girls did not shoot, for they thought it was a puck or a leprechaun.’

She looked once again at Frexinet, and Geralt saw that her mouth had lost its unpleasant hardness.

‘Very well. Let us celebrate this day in some way.’

She walked over to the bed of branches. The two dryads accompanying her also approached. Frexinet blanched and cowered, without becoming any smaller.

Eithné looked at him for a while, narrowing her eyes a little.

‘Have you children?’ she finally asked. ‘I am talking to you, blockhead.’

‘Eh?’

‘I trust I express myself clearly.’

‘I’m not…’ Frexinet hemmed and coughed. ‘I’m not married.’

‘Your marital status is of little concern to me. What interests me is whether you are capable of mustering anything from your suety loins. By the Great Tree! Have you ever made a woman with child?’

‘Errr… Yes… Yes, my lady, but—’

Eithné waved a hand carelessly and turned towards Geralt.

‘He shall stay in Brokilon,’ she said, ‘until he is fully healed and then a little longer. Afterwards… He may go whither he so wish.’

‘Thank you, Eithné,’ the Witcher bowed.’ And… the little girl? What about her?’

‘Why do you ask?’ The dryad looked at him with a cold glint in her silver eyes. ‘You know.’

‘She is not an ordinary, village child. She is a princess.’

‘That makes no impression on me. Nor makes any difference.’

‘Listen…’

‘Not another word, Gwynbleidd.’