‘No, Geralt.’ Dandelion lowered his head. ‘I’m not. I’m staying here in Toussaint with my Little Weasel. I mean with Anarietta. But I couldn’t not say farewell to you. Or wish you a safe journey.’

‘Thank the duchess for everything. And make excuses as to why it’s so sudden and without a farewell. Explain it somehow.’

‘You took a knightly vow and that’s that. Everybody in Toussaint, including the Little Weasel, will understand, and here… Have it. Let it be my contribution.’

‘Dandelion.’ Geralt took a heavy pouch from the poet. ‘We aren’t suffering from a shortage of money. It’s not necessary…’

‘Let it be my contribution.’ Repeated the troubadour. ‘Cash always comes in useful. And besides, it isn’t mine, I took those ducats from the Little Weasel’s private coffer. Why are you looking like that? Women don’t need money. I mean what for? They don’t drink, they don’t play dice, and they’re bloody women themselves. Well, farewell! Be off, because I’ll burst into tears. And when it’s all over you’re to stop by Toussaint on your way back and tell me everything. And I want to hug Ciri. Do you promise, Geralt?’

‘I promise.’

‘So, farewell.’

‘Wait.’ Geralt wheeled his horse around and rode closer to Pegasus. He took a letter surreptitiously from his bosom. ‘Make sure this letter reaches—’

‘Fringilla Vigo?’

‘No. Dijkstra.’

‘Are you serious, Geralt? And how do you propose I do it?’

‘Find a way. I know you will. And now farewell. Give us a hug, you old fool.’

‘Give us a hug, comrade. I’ll be looking out for you.’

They watched him ride away and saw him trotting towards Beauclair.

The sky darkened.

‘Reynart.’ The Witcher turned around in the saddle. ‘Ride with us.’

‘No, Geralt,’ replied Reynart de Bois-Fresnes a moment later. ‘I’m errant. But not asinine.’

There was unusual excitement in the great columned chamber of Montecalvo Castle. The subtle chiaroscuro of candelabras that usually predominated there was replaced by the milky brightness of a huge, magical screen. The image on the screen shimmered, flickered and vanished, intensifying the excitement and tension. And anxiety.

‘Ha,’ said Philippa Eilhart, smiling predatorily. ‘Pity I can’t be there. A little action would do me good. And a little adrenaline.’

Sheala de Tancarville looked at her sarcastically, but didn’t say anything. Francesca Findabair and Ida Emean magically stabilised the image, and enlarged it to fill the entire wall. They clearly saw black mountain peaks against a dark blue sky, stars reflecting in the surface of a lake, and the dark and angular shape of a castle.