‘Speak.’

‘When the child was born six years ago she summoned me and ordered me to cheat you. And kill it.’

‘You refused.’

‘No one refuses Calanthe,’ Mousesack said, looking him straight in the eyes. ‘I was prepared to take to the road when she summoned me once again. She retracted the order, without a word of explanation. Be cautious when you talk to her.’

‘I shall. Mousesack, tell me, what happened to Duny and Pavetta?’

‘They were sailing from Skellige to Cintra. They were surprised by a storm. Not a single splinter was found of the ship. Geralt… That the child was not with them then is an incredibly queer matter. Inexplicable. They were meant to take it with them but at the last moment did not. No one knows why, Pavetta could never be parted from—’

‘How did Calanthe bear it?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Of course.’

Shrieking like a band of goblins, the boys hurtled upwards and flashed beside them. Geralt noticed that not far behind the head of the rushing herd hurried a little girl, as thin and clamorous as the boys, only with a fair plait waving behind her. Howling wildly, the band spilled down the moat’s steep slope again. At least half of them, including the girl, slid down on their behinds. The smallest one, still unable to keep up, fell over, rolled down to the bottom and began crying loudly, clutching a grazed knee. The other boys surrounded him, jeering and mocking, and then ran on. The little girl knelt by the little boy, hugged him and wiped away his tears, smudging dust and dirt over his face.

‘Let us go, Geralt. The queen awaits.’

‘Let’s go, Mousesack.’

Calanthe was sitting on a large bench suspended on chains from the bough of a huge linden tree. She appeared to be dozing, but that was belied by an occasional push of her foot to swing the bench every now and again. There were three young women with her. One of them was sitting on the grass beside the swing, her spread-out dress shining bright white against the green like a patch of snow. The other two were not far away, chatting as they cautiously pulled apart the branches on some raspberry bushes.

‘Ma’am,’ Mousesack bowed.

The queen raised her head. Geralt went down on one knee.

‘Witcher,’ she said drily.

As in the past she was decorated with emeralds, which matched her green dress. And the colour of her eyes. As in the past, she was wearing a narrow, gold band on her mousy hair. But her hands, which he remembered as white and slender, were less slender now. She had gained weight.

‘Greetings, Calanthe of Cintra.’

‘Welcome, Geralt of Rivia. Rise. I’ve been waiting for you. Mousesack, my friend, escort the young ladies back to the castle.’

‘At your behest, Your Majesty.’

They were left alone.

‘Six years,’ began Calanthe unsmilingly. ‘You are horrifyingly punctual, Witcher.’

He did not comment.

‘There were moments–what am I saying–years, when I convinced myself that you would forget. Or that other reasons would prevent you from coming. No, I did not in principle wish misfortune on you, but I had to take into consideration the none-too-safe nature of your profession. They say that death dogs your footsteps, Geralt of Rivia, but that you never look back. And later… When Pavetta… Do you know?’