‘O Queen,’ Geralt said, clearing his throat. ‘You certainly went to sufficient pains in your studies to know that the code and my oath forbid me from even uttering that name, much less discussing it.’

Calanthe stopped the swing abruptly by jabbing a heel into the ground.

‘Three, at most four in ten,’ she said, nodding her head in feigned pensiveness. ‘A stringent selection, very stringent, I’d say, and at every stage. First the Choice and then the Trials. And then the Changes. How many youngsters ultimately receive medallions and silver swords? One in ten? One in twenty?’

The Witcher said nothing.

‘I’ve pondered long over this,’ Calanthe continued, now without a smile. ‘And I’ve come to the conclusion that the selection of the children at the stage of the Choice has scant significance. What difference does it make, in the end, Geralt, which child dies or goes insane, stuffed full of narcotics? What difference does it make whose brain bursts from hallucinations, whose eyes rupture and gush forth, instead of becoming cats’ eyes? What difference does it make whether the child destiny chose or an utterly chance one dies in its own blood and puke? Answer me.’

The Witcher folded his arms on his chest, in order to control their trembling.

‘What’s the point of this?’ he asked. ‘Are you expecting an answer?’

‘You’re right, I’m not,’ the queen smiled again. ‘As usual you are quite correct in your deductions. Who knows, perhaps even though I’m not expecting an answer I would like benignly to devote a little attention to your frank words, freely volunteered? Words, which, who knows, perhaps you would like to unburden yourself of, and along with them whatever is oppressing your soul? But if not, too bad. Come on, let’s get down to business, we must supply the storytellers with material. Let’s go and choose a child, Witcher.’

‘Calanthe,’ he said, looking her in the eyes. ‘It’s not worth worrying about storytellers. If they don’t have enough material they’ll make things up anyway. And if they do have authentic material at their disposal, they’ll distort it. As you correctly observed, this isn’t a fairy tale, it’s life. Lousy and evil. And so, damn it all, let’s live it decently and well. Let’s keep the amount of harm done to others to the absolute minimum. In a fairy tale, I grant you, the queen has to beg the witcher and the witcher can demand what’s his and stamp his foot. In real life the queen can simply say: “Please don’t take the child”. And the Witcher can reply: “Since you ask–I shall not”. And go off into the setting sun. Such is life. But the storyteller wouldn’t get a penny from his listeners for an ending to a fairy tale like that. At most they’d get a kick up the arse. Because it’s dull.’

Calanthe stopped smiling and something he had seen once before flashed in her eyes.

‘What?’ she hissed. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Calanthe. You know what I mean. As I came here, so I shall leave. Should I choose a child? Why would I need one? Do you think it matters so much to me? That I came here to Cintra, driven by an obsession to take your grandchild away from you? No, Calanthe. I wanted, perhaps, to see this child, look destiny in the eyes… For I don’t know myself… But don’t be afraid. I shan’t take it, all you have to do is ask—’