‘I know perfectly well what you mean,’ she smiled. ‘But you have slim chances of enjoying such a pleasure. I cannot judge your age, Witcher, but I suppose you’re much, much older than your appearance would indicate. So, that woman—’

‘That woman,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘probably looks much, much younger than I do now.’

‘A sorceress?’

‘Yes.’

‘Interesting. I thought sorceresses couldn’t…?’

‘She probably thought so too.’

‘Yes. But you’re right, let’s not discuss a woman’s right to this decision, because it is a matter beyond debate. Let us return to our problem. You will not take the child? Definitely?’

‘Definitely.’

‘And if… If destiny is not merely a myth? If it really exists, doesn’t a fear arise that it may backfire?’

‘If it backfires, it’ll backfire on me,’ he answered placidly. ‘For I am the one acting against it. You, after all, have carried out your side of the bargain. For if destiny isn’t a myth, I would have to choose the appropriate child among the ones you have shown me. But is Pavetta’s child among those children?’

‘Yes,’ Calanthe slowly nodded her head. ‘Would you like to see it? Would you like to gaze into the eyes of destiny?’

‘No. No, I don’t. I quit, I renounce it. I renounce my right to the boy. I don’t want to look destiny in the eyes, because I don’t believe in it. Because I know that in order to unite two people, destiny is insufficient. Something more is necessary than destiny. I sneer at such destiny; I won’t follow it like a blind man being led by the hand, uncomprehending and naive. This is my irrevocable decision, O Calanthe of Cintra.’

The queen stood up. She smiled. He was unable to guess what lay behind her smile.

‘Let it be thus, Geralt of Rivia. Perhaps your destiny was precisely to renounce it and quit? I think that’s exactly what it was. For you should know that if you had chosen, chosen correctly, you would see that the destiny you mock has been sneering at you.’

He looked into her glaring green eyes. She smiled. He could not decipher the smile.

There was a rosebush growing beside the summerhouse. He broke a stem and picked a flower, kneeled down, and proffered it to her, holding it in both hands, head bowed.

‘Pity I didn’t meet you earlier, White Hair,’ she murmured, taking the rose from his hands. ‘Rise.’

He stood up.

‘Should you change your mind,’ she said, lifting the rose up to her face. ‘Should you decide… Come back to Cintra. I shall be waiting. And your destiny will also be waiting. Perhaps not forever, but certainly for some time longer.’

‘Farewell, Calanthe.’

‘Farewell, Witcher. Look after yourself. I have… A moment ago I had a foreboding… A curious foreboding… that this is the last time I shall see you.’

‘Farewell, O Queen.’

V

He awoke and discovered to his astonishment that the pain gnawing at his thigh had vanished. It also seemed that the throbbing swelling which was stretching the skin had stopped troubling him. He tried to reach it, touch it, but could not move. Before he realised that he was being held fast solely by the weight of the skins covering him, a cold, hideous dread ran down to his belly and dug into his guts like a hawk’s talons. He clenched and relaxed his fingers, rhythmically, repeating in his head, no, no, I’m not…