‘Soft, Child of the Elder Blood,’ the dryad said, hugging Ciri. ‘Don’t shout. Of course you will not be a princess—’

‘Of course,’ the Witcher interjected caustically. ‘You, Eithné, and I well know what she will be. I see it has already been decided. So it goes. What answer should I take to King Venzlav, O Lady of Brokilon?’

‘None.’

‘What do you mean, “none”?’

‘None. He will understand. Long ago, long, long ago, before Venzlav was in the world, heralds rode up to Brokilon’s borders. Horns and trumpets blared, armour glinted, and pennants and standards fluttered. “Humble yourself, Brokilon!” they cried. “King Goat Tooth, king of Bald Hillock and Marshy Meadow, orders you to humble yourself, Brokilon!” And Brokilon’s answer was always the same. As you are leaving my Forest, Gwynbleidd, turn around and listen. In the rustle of the leaves you will hear Brokilon’s answer. Pass it on to Venzlav and add that he will never hear another while the oaks still stand in Duén Canell. Not while a single tree still grows or a single dryad still lives here.’

Geralt was silent.

‘You say something is ending,’ Eithné slowly went on. ‘Not true. There are things that never end. You talk of survival? I am fighting to survive. Brokilon endures thanks to my fight, for trees live longer than men, as long as they are protected from your axes. You talk to me of kings and princes. Who are they? Those whom I know are white skeletons lying in the necropolises of Craag An, deep in the forest. In marble tombs, on piles of yellow metal and shining gems. But Brokilon endures, the trees sough above the ruins of palaces, their roots break up the marble. Does your Venzlav recall those kings? Do you, Gwynbleidd? And if not, how can you claim that something is ending? How do you know whose destiny is destruction and whose eternity? What entitles you to speak of destiny? Do you actually know what it is?’

‘No,’ the Witcher agreed, ‘I do not. But—’

‘If you know not,’ she interrupted, ‘there is no place for any “but”. You know not. You simply know not.’

She was silent, touched her forehead with her hand and turned her face away.

‘When you came here the first time, years ago,’ she said, ‘you did not know either. And Morénn… My daughter… Geralt, Morénn is dead. She fell by the Ribbon, defending Brokilon. I did not recognise her when they brought her to me. Her face had been crushed by the hooves of your horses. Destiny? And today, you, Witcher, who could not give Morénn a child, bring her–the Child of the Elder Blood–to me. A little girl who knows what destiny is. No, it is not knowledge which would suit you, knowledge which you could accept. She simply believes. Say it again, Ciri, repeat what you told me before the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, entered. That witcher who does not know. Say it again, Child of the Elder Blood.’