‘I said reasons of state. Reasons of state have nothing in common with justice. In any case…’ He waved a hand. ‘I want to talk to her. Alone. Come closer, Princess. Closer, closer, look lively. Your emperor commands.’

The girl curtseyed low. Emhyr looked her up and down, returning in his memory to that momentous audience in Loc Grim. He was full of appreciation, nay admiration, for Stella Congreve, who in the course of the six months that had passed since that moment had managed to transform the ugly duckling into a little noblewoman.

‘Leave us,’ he commanded. ‘Take a break, Master Robin. To clean your brushes, let’s say. While I would ask you, Countess, to wait in the antechamber. And you, Princess, follow me onto the terrace.’

The wet snow which had fallen in the night was melting in the first rays of the morning sun, and the roofs of the towers and pinnacles of Darn Rowan Castle were still wet and glistened as though on fire.

Emhyr went over to the balcony’s balustrade. The girl–in keeping with protocol–hung back three paces. He gestured impatiently for her to come closer.

The emperor said nothing for a long time, resting both hands on the balustrade, staring at the hills and the evergreen yews covering them, clearly distinct from the white limestone of the rocky faults. The river glinted, a ribbon of molten silver winding through the valley.

Spring was in the air.

‘I reside here too seldom,’ said Emhyr. The girl said nothing. ‘I come here too seldom,’ he repeated, turning around. ‘And it’s a beautiful place, exuding calm. A beautiful region… Do you agree with me?’

‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’

‘Spring is in the air. Am I right?’

‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’

From below, in the courtyard, came the sound of singing disturbed by clanking, rattling and the clattering of horseshoes. The escort, informed that the emperor had ordered his departure, was hurriedly making ready for the road. Emhyr remembered that among the guardsmen was one who sang. Often. And regardless of circumstances.

Look on me graciously

With eyes of cornflower blue

Grant me mercifully

Your fondness so true

Think on me mercifully

And at this night hour

Decline me not graciously

But receive me to your bower

‘A pretty ballad,’ he said ponderously, touching his heavy, gold, imperial necklace with his fingers.

‘It is, Your Imperial Majesty.’

Vattier assures me he is on Vilgefortz’s trail. That finding him is a question of days, at most weeks. The traitors’ heads will fall, and the real Cirilla, Queen of Cintra, will be brought to Nilfgaard.

And before the authentic Cirilla, Queen of Cintra, comes to Nilfgaard, something will have to be done with her look-alike.

‘Raise your head.’

She obeyed.

‘Do you have any wishes?’ he asked, suddenly and harshly. ‘Any complaints? Requests?’

‘No, Your Imperial Highness. I do not.’

‘Indeed? Interesting. Ah well, but I can’t exactly order you to have any. Raise your head, as befits a princess. Stella has taught you manners, I trust?’