‘It’ll be hot down there.’

‘I know. But we’re together.’

‘We’re together.’

‘I’m with you,’ said Yennefer, following them down the stairs, red and slippery with blood.

‘Form up! Form up!’ roared Tawny Owl.

Several of the men who had run to get crossbows returned. Without them. Very terrified.

The rumble of doors being forced by battle-axes, thudding, the clanking of iron and the sound of heavy steps resounded from all three corridors leading to the stairway. And suddenly soldiers in black helmets, armour and cloaks with the sign of a silver salamander marched out of all three corridors. On being shouted at thunderously and menacingly Skellen’s mercenaries threw their weapons on the floor, one after the other. Crossbows and the blades of glaives and bear spears were aimed at the more hesitant, and they were urged on by even more menacing shouts. Now all of them obeyed, for it was evident that the black-cloaked soldiers were extremely keen to kill somebody and were only waiting for a pretext. Tawny Owl stood at the foot of a column, arms crossed on his chest.

‘Miraculous relief?’ muttered Ciri. Geralt shook his head.

Crossbows and spear blades were also being aimed at them.

‘Glaeddyvan vort!’

There was no sense in resisting. Black-cloaked soldiers were swarming like ants at the bottom of the stairs, and the witchers were very, very weary. But they didn’t drop their swords. They placed them carefully on the steps. And then sat down. Geralt felt Ciri’s warm shoulder and heard her breath.

Yennefer descended, walking past corpses and pools of blood, showing the black-cloaked soldiers her unarmed hands. She sat down heavily beside them on a step. Geralt also felt the warmth against his other shoulder. It’s a pity it can’t always be like this, he thought. And he knew it couldn’t.

Tawny Owl’s men were tied up and escorted away one after the other. There were more and more soldiers in black cloaks bearing the salamander. Suddenly, high-ranking officers appeared among them, recognisable by the white plumes and silver edging on their suits of armour. And by the respect which the others showed in parting to let them pass.

The soldiers stood back with even greater respect before one of the officers, whose helmet was particularly sumptuously decorated with silver, bowing before him.

The man stopped in front of Skellen, who was standing at the foot of the column. Tawny Owl–it was very obvious even in the flickering light of the torches and the paintings burning out in the cressets–paled, becoming as white as a sheet.

‘Stefan Skellen,’ said the officer, in a resonant voice, a voice which sounded right up to the vault of the hall. ‘You will be tried in court. And punished for treason.’

Tawny Owl was led away, but his hands weren’t tied like the ordinary soldiers’ had been.