‘By keeping her here, you will arouse hostility and the desire for vengeance, Eithné. You will arouse a consuming hatred.’

‘Human hatred is nothing new to me. No, Geralt. I shall not give her up. Particularly since she is hale. That has been uncommon recently.’

‘Uncommon?’

The dryad fixed her huge, silver eyes on him.

‘They abandon sick little girls with me. Diphtheria, scarlet fever, croup, recently even smallpox. They think we are not immune, that the epidemic will annihilate or at least decimate us. We disappoint them, Geralt. We have something more than immunity. Brokilon cares for its children.’

She fell silent, leaning over, carefully combing out a lock of Ciri’s tangled hair, using her other hand to help.

‘May I,’ the Witcher cleared his throat, ‘turn to the petition, with which King Venzlav has sent me?’

‘Is it not a waste of time?’ Eithné lifted her head. ‘Why bother? I know perfectly well what King Venzlav wants. For that, I do not need prophetic gifts at all. He wants me to give him Brokilon, probably as far as the River Vda, which, I gather, he considers–or would like to consider–the natural border between Brugge and Verden. In exchange, I presume, he is offering me a small and untamed corner of the forest. And probably gives his kingly word and offers kingly protection that that small, untamed corner, that scrap of forest, will belong to me forever and ever and that no one will dare to disturb the dryads there. That the dryads there will be able to live in peace. So what, Geralt? Venzlav would like to put an end to the war over Brokilon, which has lasted two centuries. And in order to end it, the dryads would have to give up what they have been dying in the defence of for two hundred years? Simply hand it over? Give up Brokilon?’

Geralt was silent. He had nothing to add. The dryad smiled.

‘Did the royal proposal run thus, Gwynbleidd? Or perhaps it was more blunt, saying: “Don’t put on airs, you sylvan monster, beast of the wilderness, relict of the past, but listen to what I, King Venzlav, want. I want cedar, oak and hickory, mahogany and golden birch, yew for bows and pine for masts, because Brokilon is close at hand, and otherwise I have to bring wood from beyond the mountains. I want the iron and copper that are beneath the earth. I want the gold that lies on Craag An. I want to fell and saw, and dig in the earth, without having to listen to the whistling of arrows. And most importantly; I want at last to be a king, one to whom everything bows down in his kingdom. I do not wish for some Brokilon in our kingdom, for a forest I cannot enter. Such a forest affronts me, rouses me to wrath and affords me sleepless nights, for I am a man, we rule over the world. We may, if we wish, tolerate a few elves, dryads or rusalkas in this world. If they are not too insolent. Submit to my will, O Witch of Brokilon. Or perish.” ’