‘No,’ said Ciri hoarsely. ‘Absolutely not. I won’t agree to that.’

‘You didn’t let me finish.’

‘Don’t treat me like a fool. I won’t give him what’s in that flacon. You won’t use me for things like that.’

‘You draw very hasty conclusions,’ he said slowly, looking her in the eye. ‘You’re trying to outrun yourself in the race. And things like that always end with a fall. A very painful fall.’

‘I said no.’

‘Think it over well. Regardless of what the vessel contains, you always win. You always win, Swallow.’

‘No!’

With a movement just as dextrous as before, truly worthy of a conjuror, he swept the flacon from the table. Then he stayed silent for a long while, looking at the River Easnadh glinting among the trees.

‘You’ll die here, little butterfly,’ he said finally. ‘They won’t let you leave. But it’s your choice.’

‘I made a deal. My freedom for—’

‘Freedom,’ he snorted. ‘You keep talking about freedom. And what would you do if you finally regained it? Where would you make for? Get it into your head that at this moment not only places but time separate you from your world. Time passes differently here than there. Those you knew as children are now decrepit, those who were your peers died long ago.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Think back to your legends. Legends about people who mysteriously disappeared and returned years later, only to gaze on the overgrown graves of their loved ones. Do you think they were fantasies, fabrications? You’re mistaken. For whole centuries people have been kidnapped, carried away by horsemen whom you call the Wild Hunt. Kidnapped, exploited, and then discarded like the shell of a sucked-out egg. But not even that will befall you, Zireael. You will die here. You won’t even have the chance of seeing your friends’ graves.’

‘I don’t believe what you’re saying.’

‘Your beliefs are your own private matter. And you chose your own fate yourself. Let’s go back. I have a request, Swallow. Would you like to consume a light meal with me in Tir ná Lia?’

For several heartbeats hunger and a reckless fascination fought in Ciri against anger, fear of poison and general antipathy.

‘With pleasure.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘Thank you for the offer.’

‘No, I thank you. Let’s go.’

As they were exiting the bower she glanced at the divan once again. And thought that Anna Tiller was actually a stupid and gushing hack.

They descended to the River Sigh slowly, in silence, amidst the aroma of mint, sage and nettle. Down the steps. Along the bank of a stream called the Whisper.

When that evening, perfumed, with hair still damp after an aromatic bath, she entered the royal chambers, she found Auberon on a sofa, bent over a large book. Without a word, with only a gesture, he ordered her to sit beside him.