From the undergrowth on the distant edge of the forest emerged small shapes in tight-fitting garments patched green and brown, with faces streaked with walnut-shell dye.

‘Ceádmil, Wedd Brokiloéne!’ the rider called. ‘Fáill, Aná Woedwedd!’

‘Fáill!’ replied a voice from the forest like a gust of wind.

The green and brown shapes began to disappear, one after the other, melting into the thicket of the forest. Only one remained, with flowing hair the colour of honey. She took several steps and approached.

‘Vá fáill, Gwynbleidd!’ she called, coming even closer.

‘Farewell, Mona,’ the Witcher said. ‘I will not forget you.’

‘Forget me,’ she responded firmly, adjusting her quiver on her back. ‘There is no Mona. Mona was a dream. I am Braenn. Braenn of Brokilon!’

She waved at him once more. And disappeared.

The Witcher turned around.

‘Mousesack,’ he said, looking at the rider on the grey horse.

‘Geralt,’ the rider nodded, eyeing him up and down coldly. ‘An interesting encounter. But let us begin with the most important things. Where is Ciri?’

‘Here!’ the girl yelled from the foliage. ‘Can I come down yet?’

‘Yes, you may,’ the Witcher said.

‘But I don’t know how!’

‘The same way as you climbed up, just the other way around.’

‘I’m afraid! I’m right at the very top!’

‘Get down, I said! We need to have a serious conversation, young lady!’

‘What about?’

‘About why the bloody hell you climbed up there instead of running into the forest? I would have followed you instead of… Oh, blow it. Get down!’

‘I did what the cat in the story did! Whatever I do it’s always wrong! Why, I’d like to know.’

‘I would too,’ the druid said, dismounting. ‘I would also like to know. And your grandmamma, Queen Calanthe, would like to know, too. Come on, climb down, princess.’

Leaves and dry branches fell from the tree. Then there was a sharp crack of tearing material, and finally Ciri appeared, sliding astride the trunk. She had picturesque shreds instead of a hood on her jacket.

‘Uncle Mousesack!’

‘In person.’ The druid embraced and cuddled the little girl.

‘Did grandmamma send you? Uncle? Is she very worried?’

‘Not very,’ Mousesack smiled. ‘She is too busy soaking her switch. The way to Cintra, Ciri, will take us some time. Devote it to thinking up an explanation for your deeds. It ought to be, if you want to benefit from my counsel, a very short and matter-of-fact explanation. One which can be given very, very quickly. For in any case I judge you will be screaming at the end of it, princess. Very, very loudly.’

Ciri grimaced painfully, wrinkled up her nose, snorted softly, and her hands involuntarily went towards the endangered place.

‘Let’s go,’ Geralt said, looking around. ‘Let’s go, Mousesack.’

VIII

‘No,’ the druid said. ‘Calanthe has changed her plans, she does not want the marriage of Ciri and Kistrin to go ahead now. She has her reasons. Additionally, I presume I don’t have to explain that following that dreadful scandal with the sham ambush on the merchants, King Ervyll has gone down a long way in my estimation, and my estimation matters in the kingdom. No, we won’t even stop off at Nastrog. I’ll take the lass straight to Cintra. Ride with us, Geralt.’