‘It’s swollen, sir, the whole thigh. And you’re burning with fever—’

‘Fuck the fever. Yurga?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I forgot to thank you…’

‘It’s not you who should be doing the thanking, sir, but me. You saved my life, you suffered an injury in my defence. And me? What did I do? I bandaged a wounded man, who’d fainted away, and put him on my cart and didn’t leave him to expire. It’s an ordinary matter, Witcher, sir.’

‘It’s not so ordinary, Yurga. I’ve been left… in similar situations… Like a dog…’

The merchant, lowering his head, said nothing.

‘Well, what can I say, it’s a base world,’ he finally muttered. ‘But that’s no reason for us all to become despicable. What we need is kindness. My father taught me that and I teach it to my sons.’

The Witcher was silent, and observed the branches of the trees above the road, sliding past as the cart went on. His thigh throbbed. He felt no pain.

‘Where are we?’

‘We’ve forded the River Trava, now we’re in the Groundcherry Forests. It’s no longer Temeria, but Sodden. You were asleep when we crossed the border, when the customs officers were rummaging in the cart. I’ll tell you, though, they were astonished by you. But their senior officer knew you and ordered us through without delay.’

‘He knew me?’

‘Aye, there’s no doubt. He called you Geralt. That’s what he said; Geralt of Rivia. Is that your name?’

‘It is…’

‘And he promised to send a man ahead with the tidings that a doctor is needed. And I gave him a little something so as he wouldn’t forget.’

‘Thank you, Yurga.’

‘No, Witcher, sir. I’ve already said, it’s me as thanks you. And not just that. I’m also in your debt. We have an agreement… What is it, sir? Are you feeling faint?’

‘Yurga… The flacon with the green seal…’

‘Sir… You’ll start… You were calling out dreadfully in your sleep…’

‘I must, Yurga…’

‘As you wish. Wait, I’ll pour it into a bowl right away… By the Gods, we need a doctor as quickly as possible, otherwise…’

The Witcher turned his head away. He heard the cries of children playing in a dried-up, inner moat surrounding the castle grounds. There were around ten of them. The youngsters were making an ear-splitting din, outshouting each other in shrill, excited voices which kept breaking into falsetto. They were running to and fro along the bottom of the moat, like a shoal of swift little fishes, unexpectedly and very quickly changing direction, but always staying together. As usual, behind the screeching older boys, as skinny as scarecrows, ran a little child, panting and quite incapable of catching up.

‘There are plenty of them,’ the Witcher observed.

Mousesack smiled sourly, tugging at his beard, and shrugged.

‘Aye, plenty.’

‘And which of them… Which of these boys is the celebrated Child of Destiny?’

The druid looked away.

‘I am forbidden, Geralt…’

‘Calanthe?’

‘Of course. You cannot have deluded yourself that she would give the child up so easily? You have met her, after all. She is a woman of iron. I shall tell you something, something I ought not to say, in the hope that you’ll understand. I hope too, that you will not betray me before her.’