‘Me too,’ the Witcher said bitterly, ‘I can’t either. I’ve never understood elves. But at least I know why most people aren’t fond of them. Because it’s difficult not to feel that they’re mocking us. The elves mock us, deride us, in everything they do, say and think. Scoff at us.’

‘It’s your anthropomorphism talking.’

‘Perhaps a little. But the impression remains.’

‘What do we do?’

‘We return to Caed Myrkvid and Cahir. The druidesses have probably patched up his scalped pate. Then we mount our horses and take advantage of Princess Anna Henrietta’s invitation. Don’t make faces, vampire. Milva has a few broken ribs, Cahir’s nut has been split open, so a little rest in Toussaint will do both of them good. We also have to untangle Dandelion from this business, because it looks like he’s well and truly caught up.’

‘Very well,’ sighed Regis. ‘Let it be. I’ll have to steer clear of looking glasses and dogs, watch out for sorcerers and telepaths… and if in spite of that they unmask me, I’m counting on you.’

‘You can,’ Geralt responded gravely. ‘I won’t abandon you in need. Comrade.’

The vampire smiled, and because they were alone, showed his full set of fangs.

‘Comrade?’

‘It’s my anthropomorphism talking. On we go, let’s get out of these caverns, comrade. Because all we’ll find here is rheumatism.’

‘I agree. Unless… Geralt? Tir ná Béa Arainne, the elven necropolis, according to what you saw, is behind the cave painting, right behind that wall. We could get there if we… you know. Smashed it. Haven’t you thought about that?’

‘No. I haven’t.’

The Fisher King had been lucky again, because there was smoked char for supper. Fish so tasty that the lesson wasn’t learned. Condwiramurs stuffed herself again.

Condwiramurs burped and tasted the smoked char. Time for bed, she thought, for the second time catching herself mechanically turning a page in the book without registering the content at all. Time for bed.

She yawned and put the book aside. She rearranged the pillows, changing their positions from reading to repose. She magicked the lamp off. The chamber was immediately plunged into darkness as opaque and viscous as molasses. The heavy velour curtains were tightly drawn–the novice had long known from experience that she dreamed better in the darkness. What to choose, she thought, stretching and wriggling about on the sheets. Let it run its oneiric course or try to anchor myself?

In spite of widespread assurances, dream-readers didn’t remember even half of their prophetic dreams, a significant proportion of which remained in the oneiromancers’ memory as a muddle of images, changing colour and shape like a kaleidoscope, a child’s toy of mirrors and pieces of glass. Not so bad if the images were random and without even a semblance of meaning, then one could calmly wave them aside on the basis of I can’t remember, so it’s not worth remembering. Dreams like that were called ‘crap’ by dream-readers.