‘Dammit,’ Frexinet swore, scowling. ‘Ervyll will be furious. Geralt? Couldn’t I—?’

‘No,’ the Witcher cut him off. ‘Don’t even try. You wouldn’t get out of Duén Canell alive.’

‘That means the lass is lost.’

‘To you, yes.’

VI

Eithné’s Tree was, naturally, an oak, but it was actually three oaks fused together, still green, not betraying any signs of age, although Geralt reckoned they were at least three hundred years old. The trees were hollow inside and the cavity had the dimensions of a large chamber with a high ceiling narrowing into a cone. The interior was lit by a cresset which did not smoke, and it had been modestly–but not crudely–transformed into comfortable living quarters.

Eithné was kneeling inside on something like a fibrous mat. Ciri sat cross-legged before her, erect and motionless, as though petrified. She had been bathed and cured of her cold, and her huge, emerald eyes were wide open. The Witcher noticed that her little face, now that the dirt and the grimace of a spiteful little devil had vanished from it, was quite pretty.

Eithné was combing the little girl’s long hair, slowly and tenderly.

‘Enter, Gwynbleidd. Be seated.’

He sat down, after first ceremonially going down on one knee.

‘Are you rested?’ the dryad asked, not looking at him, and continuing to comb. ‘When can you embark on your return journey? What would you say to tomorrow morn?’

‘When you give the order,’ he said coldly. ‘O Lady of Brokilon. One word from you will suffice for me to stop vexing you with my presence in Duén Canell.’

‘Geralt,’ Eithné slowly turned her head. ‘Do not misunderstand me. I know and respect you. I know you have never harmed a dryad, rusalka, sylph or nymph; quite the opposite, you have been known to act in their defence, to save their lives. But that changes nothing. Too much divides us. We belong to different worlds. I neither want nor am able to make exceptions. For anybody. I shall not ask if you understand, for I know it is thus. I ask whether you accept it.’

‘What does it change?’

‘Nothing. But I want to know.’

‘I do,’ he confirmed. ‘But what about her? What about Ciri? She also belongs to another world.’

Ciri glanced at him timidly and then upwards at the dryad. Eithné smiled.

‘But not for long,’ she said.

‘Eithné, please. First think it over.’

‘What for?’

‘Give her to me. Let her return with me. To the world she belongs to.’

‘No, White Wolf,’ the dryad plunged the comb into the little girl’s mousy hair again. ‘I shall not. You of all people ought to understand.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Certain tidings from the world even reach Brokilon. Tidings about a certain witcher, who for services rendered occasionally demanded curious vows. “You will give me what you do not expect to find at home.” “You will give me what you already have, but about which you do not know.” Does that sound familiar? After all, for some time you witchers have been trying in this way to direct fate, you have been seeking boys designated by fate to be your successors, wishing to protect yourself from extinction and oblivion. From nihilism. Why, then, are you surprised at me? I care for the fate of the dryads. Surely that is just? A young human girl for each dryad killed by humans.’