‘I do,’ Geralt bowed his head. ‘I sympathise with all my heart—’

‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘It was long ago. I no longer wear mourning, as you see. I did, for long enough. Pavetta and Duny… Destined for each other. Until the very end. How can one not believe in the power of destiny?’

They were both silent. Calanthe moved her foot and set the swing in motion again.

‘And so the Witcher has returned after six years, as agreed,’ she said slowly, and a strange smile bloomed on her face. ‘He has returned and demands the fulfilment of the oath. Do you think, Geralt, that storytellers will tell of our meeting in this way, when a hundred years have passed? I think so. Except they will probably colour the tale, tug on heart strings, play on the emotions. Yes, they know how. I can imagine it. Please listen. And the cruel Witcher spake thus: “Fulfil your vow, O Queen, or my curse shall fall on you”. And the queen, weeping fulsomely, fell on her knees before the Witcher, crying: “Have mercy! Do not take the child from me! It is all I have left!”.’

‘Calanthe—’

‘Don’t interrupt,’ she said sharply. ‘I am telling a story, haven’t you noticed? Listen on. The evil, cruel Witcher stamped his foot, waved his arms and cried: “Beware, faithless one, beware of fate’s vengeance. If you do not keep your vow you will never escape punishment”. And the queen replied: “Very well, Witcher. Let it be as fate wishes it. Look over there, where ten children are frolicking. Choose the one destined to you, and you shall take it as your own and leave me with a broken heart”.’

The Witcher said nothing.

‘In the story,’ Calanthe’s smile became more and more ugly, ‘the queen, I presume, would let the Witcher guess thrice. But we aren’t in a story, Geralt. We are here in reality, you and I, and our problem. And our destiny. It isn’t a fairy story, it’s real life. Lousy, evil, onerous, not sparing of errors, harm, sorrow, disappointments or misfortunes; not sparing of anyone, neither witchers, nor queens. Which is why, Geralt of Rivia, you will only have one guess.’

The Witcher still said nothing.

‘Just one, single attempt,’ Calanthe repeated. ‘But as I said, this is not a fairy tale but life, which we must fill with moments of happiness for ourselves, for, as you know, we cannot count on fate to smile on us. Which is why, irrespective of the result of your choice, you will not leave here with nothing. You will take one child. The one you choose. A child you will turn into a witcher. Assuming the child survives the Trial of the Grasses, naturally.’

Geralt jerked up his head. The queen smiled. He knew that smile, hideous and evil, contemptuous because it did not conceal its artificiality.

‘You are astonished,’ she stated. ‘Well, I’ve studied a little. Since Pavetta’s child has the chance of becoming a witcher, I went to great pains. My sources, Geralt, reveal nothing, however, regarding how many children in ten withstand the Trial of the Grasses. Would you like to satisfy my curiosity in this regard?’