‘Nothing. Dandelion… In Cintra there was a… little girl. Calanthe’s granddaughter, she was around ten or eleven. Her name was Ciri. Did you hear anything about her?’

‘No. But there was a terrible massacre in the city and the castle and almost no one got out alive. And nobody survived of those who defended the keep, I told you. And most of the women and children from the notable families were there.’

The Witcher said nothing.

‘That Calanthe,’ Dandelion asked. ‘Did you know her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the little girl you were asking about? Ciri?’

‘I knew her too.’

The wind blew from the river, rippled the water, shook the trees and the leaves fell from the branches in a shimmering shower. Autumn, thought the Witcher, it’s autumn again.

He stood up.

‘Do you believe in destiny, Dandelion?’

The troubadour raised his head and looked at him with his eyes wide open.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Answer.’

‘Well… yes.’

‘But did you know that destiny alone is not enough? That something more is necessary?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re not the only one. But that’s how it is. Something more is needed. The problem is that… that I won’t ever find out what.’

‘What’s the matter, Geralt?’

‘Nothing, Dandelion. Come, get on. Let’s go, we’re wasting the day. Who knows how long it’ll take us to find a boat, and we’ll need a big one. I’m not leaving Roach, after all.’

‘Are we crossing the river today?’ the poet asked, happily.

‘Yes. There’s nothing for me on this side of the river.’

IX

‘Yurga!’

‘Darling!’

She ran from the gate–her hair escaping her headscarf, blowing around–stumbling and crying out. Yurga threw the halter to his servant, jumped down from the cart, ran to meet his wife, seized her around the waist, lifted her up and spun her, whirled her around.

‘I’m home, my darling! I’ve returned!’

‘Yurga!’

‘I’m back! Hey, throw open the gates! The man of the house has returned!’

She was wet, smelling of soap suds. She had clearly been doing the laundry. He stood her on the ground, but she still did not release him, and remained clinging, trembling, warm.

‘Lead me inside.’

‘By the Gods, you’ve returned… I couldn’t sleep at night… Yurga… I couldn’t sleep at night—’

‘I’ve returned. Oh, I’ve returned! And I’ve returned with riches! Do you see the cart? Hey, hurry, drive it in! Do you see the cart? I’m carrying enough goods to—’

‘Yurga, what are goods to me, or a cart… You’ve returned… Healthy… In one piece—’

‘I’ve returned wealthy, I tell you. You’ll see directly—’

‘Yurga? But who’s that? That man in black? By the Gods, and with a sword—’

The merchant looked around. The Witcher had dismounted and was standing with his back to them, pretending to be adjusting the girth and saddlebags. He did not look at them, did not approach.

‘I’ll tell you later. Oh, but if it weren’t for him… But where are the lads? Hale?’

‘Yes, Yurga, they’re hale. They went to the fields to shoot at crows, but the neighbours will tell them you’re back. They’ll soon rush home, the three of them—’