He opened his eyes and saw the sun, a golden ducat with distinct edges, high up above the treetops, beyond the turbid veil of the morning mist. He was lying on damp, spongy moss and a hard root was digging into his back.

Ciri was kneeling beside him, tugging at his jacket.

‘Curses…’ He cleared his throat and looked around. ‘Where am I? How did I end up here?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘I woke up a moment ago, here, beside you, awffy frozen. I can’t remember how… Do you know what? It’s magic!’

‘You’re probably right,’ he said, sitting up and pulling pine needles from his collar. ‘You’re probably right, Ciri. Bloody Water of Brokilon… Looks like the dryads were enjoying themselves at our expense.’

He stood up, picked up his sword, which was lying alongside him and slung the strap across his back.

‘Ciri?’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘You were also enjoying yourself at my expense.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re the daughter of Pavetta and the granddaughter of Calanthe of Cintra. You knew who I was from the very beginning, didn’t you?’

‘No,’ she blushed. ‘Not from the beginning. You lifted the curse from my daddy, didn’t you?’

‘That’s not true,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Your mama did. And your grandmamma. I only helped.’

‘But my nanny said… She said that I’m destined. Because I’m a Surprise. A Child of Surprise. Geralt?’

‘Ciri,’ he looked at her, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Believe me, you’re the greatest surprise I could have come across.’

‘Ha!’ The little girl’s face brightened up. ‘It’s true! I’m destined. My nanny said a witcher would come who would have white hair and would take me away. But grandmamma yelled… Oh, never mind! Tell me where you’re taking me.’

‘Back home. To Cintra.’

‘Ah… But I thought you…?’

‘You’ll have time to think on the way. Let’s go, Ciri, we must leave Brokilon. It isn’t a safe place.’

‘I’m not afraid!’

‘But I am.’

‘Grandmamma said that witchers aren’t afraid of anything.’

‘Grandmamma overstated the facts. Let’s go, Ciri. If I only knew where we…’

He looked up at the sun.

‘Right, let’s risk it… We’ll go this way.’

‘No.’ Ciri wrinkled her nose and pointed in the opposite direction. ‘That way. Over there.’

‘And how do you know, may I ask?’

‘I just know,’ she shrugged and gave him a helpless, surprised, emerald look. ‘Somehow… Somewhere, over there… I don’t know…’

Pavetta’s daughter, he thought. A Child… A Child of the Elder Blood? She might have inherited something from her mother.

‘Ciri.’ He tugged open his shirt and drew out his medallion. ‘Touch this.’

‘Oh,’ she said, opening her mouth. ‘What a dreadful wolf. What fangs he has…’

‘Touch it.’

‘Oh, my!’

The Witcher smiled. He had also felt the sudden vibration of the medallion, the sharp wave running through the silver chain.

‘It moved!’ Ciri sighed. ‘It moved!’

‘I know. Let’s go, Ciri. You lead.’

‘It’s magic, isn’t it!’

‘Naturally.’

It was as he had expected. The little girl could sense the direction. How, he did not know. But soon–sooner than he had expected–they came out onto a track, onto a forked, three-way junction. It was the border of Brokilon–according to humans, at least. Eithné did not recognise it, he remembered.