‘Your Maj… Venerable lady,’ Ciri said in a voice that cracked. ‘Do not keep me here. I cannot… I want to go… home. I want to return home with Geralt. I must go… With him…’

‘Why with him?’

‘For he… is my fate.’

Eithné turned away. She was very pale.

‘What do you say to that, Geralt?’

He did not reply. Eithné clapped her hands. Braenn entered the oak tree, emerging like a ghost from the night outside, holding a large, silver goblet in both hands. The medallion around the Witcher’s neck began vibrating rapidly and rhythmically.

‘What do you say to that?’ repeated the silver-haired dryad, standing up. ‘She does not want to remain in Brokilon! She does not wish to be a dryad! She does not want to replace Morénn, she wants to leave, walk away from her fate! Is that right, Child of the Elder Blood? Is that what you actually want?’

Ciri nodded her bowed head. Her shoulders were trembling. The Witcher had had enough.

‘Why are you bullying the child, Eithné? We both know you will soon give her the Water of Brokilon and what she wants will cease to mean anything. Why are you doing this? Why are you doing it in my presence?’

‘I want to show you what destiny is. I want to prove to you that nothing is ending. That everything is only beginning.’

‘No, Eithné,’ he said, standing up. ‘I’m sorry if I’m spoiling this display for you, but I have no intention of watching it. You have gone too far, Lady of Brokilon, desirous to stress the chasm dividing us. You, the Elder Folk, like to say that hatred is alien to you, that it is a feeling known only to humans. But it is not true. You know what hatred is and are capable of hating, you merely evince it a little differently, more wisely and less savagely. But because of that it may be more cruel. I accept your hatred, Eithné, on behalf of all humankind. I deserve it. I am sorry about Morénn.’

The dryad did not respond.

‘And that is precisely Brokilon’s answer, which I am to communicate to Venzlav of Brugge, isn’t it? A warning and a challenge? Clear proof of the hatred and Power slumbering among these trees, by whose will a human child will soon drink poison which will destroy its memory, taking it from the arms of another human child whose psyche and memory have already been annihilated? And that answer is to be carried to Venzlav by a witcher who knows and feels affection for both children? The witcher who is guilty of your daughter’s death? Very well, Eithné, let it be in accordance with your will. Venzlav will hear your answer, will hear my voice, will see my eyes and read everything in them. But I do not have to look on what is to occur here. And I do not want to.’

Eithné still said nothing.

‘Farewell, Ciri,’ Geralt knelt down and hugged the little girl. Ciri’s shoulders were trembling powerfully.