‘The same chance the Fisher King has.’ Nimue nodded towards the boat on the lake. ‘As you can see, he keeps on casting his hooks. He catches waterweed, roots, submerged tree stumps, logs, old boots, drowned corpses and the Devil knows what else. But from time to time he catches something worthwhile.’

‘So I wish us good hunting,’ sighed Condwiramurs, dressing. ‘Let’s cast the bait and fish. Let’s search for the true versions of the legend, let’s unstitch the upholstery and lining, and let’s tap the chest for a false bottom. And what will happen if there isn’t a false bottom? With all due respect, Nimue, we aren’t the first in these fishing grounds. What chance is there that any detail or particular has escaped the attention of the hordes of scholars who fished it before us? That they’ve left us even a single fish?’

‘They have,’ stated Nimue with conviction, combing out her wet hair. ‘What they didn’t know, they plastered over with confabulation and purple prose. Or drew a veil over it.’

‘For instance?’

‘The sojourn of the Witcher in Toussaint, to give the first example that comes to mind. All the versions of the legend dismiss that episode with a curt sentence, “The protagonists wintered in Toussaint.” Even Dandelion, who devoted two chapters to his exploits in that county, is astonishingly enigmatic on the subject of the Witcher. Would it not then be worth finding out what happened that winter? After the flight from Belhaven and the meeting with the elf Avallac’h in the subterranean complex of Tir ná Béa Arainne? After the skirmish in Caed Myrkvid with the druids? What did the Witcher do in Toussaint from October to January?’

‘What did he do? He wintered!’ snorted the novice. ‘He couldn’t cross the pass before the thaw, so he wintered and got bored. No wonder later authors treated that boring fragment with a laconic “The winter passed”. Well, since I must, I’ll try to dream something. Do we have any pictures or drawings?’

Nimue smiled.

‘We even have a drawing on a drawing.’

The cave painting depicted a hunting scene. A large, purple bison was being pursued in wild leaps by skinny human figures with bows and spears, painted with careless brushstrokes. The bison had tiger stripes and something resembling a dragonfly was hovering above its lyre-shaped horns.

‘So this,’ Regis nodded, ‘is that wall painting. Executed by the elf Avallac’h. The elf who knew a great deal.’

‘Yes,’ Geralt confirmed dryly. ‘That’s the painting.’

‘The problem is that we’ve thoroughly explored these caves, but there are no traces of any elves, or the other creatures you mentioned.’

‘They were here. Now they’ve hidden themselves. Or decamped.’

‘That’s an indisputable fact. Don’t forget, you were only given an audience after the flaminika’s intercession. It was clearly decided that one audience would suffice. Now that the flaminika has refused cooperation quite categorically, I truly know not what else you can do. We’ve been dragging ourselves through these caves all day. I can’t help feeling it’s pointless.’