‘I wasn’t thinking about her.’ Geralt cleared his throat, seeing Ciri prick up her ears in interest. ‘I wanted to meet Reynart. And introduce him to Ciri…’

Dandelion fixed his eyes on Pegasus’s mane.

‘Reynart de Bois-Fresnes,’ he mumbled, ‘fell in a skirmish with marauders on the Cervantes pass sometime at the end of February, in the vicinity of the Vedette watchtower. Anarietta honoured him with a posthumous medal—’

‘Shut up, Dandelion.’

Dandelion shut up, admirably obedient.

May marched on and matured. The vivid yellow of dandelions disappeared from the meadows, replaced by the downy, grubby, fleeting white of their parachutes.

It was green and very warm. The air, if it wasn’t freshened by brief storms, was thick, hot and as sticky as mead.

They crossed the Yaruga on the twenty-sixth of May over a very new, very white bridge smelling of resin. The remains of the old bridge–black, scorched, charred timbers–could be seen in the water and on the bank.

Ciri became anxious.

Geralt knew. He knew her intentions, knew about her plans, about the agreement with Yennefer. He was ready. But in spite of that the thought of parting stung him painfully. As though a nasty little scorpion had been sleeping in his chest, within him, behind his ribcage and had now suddenly come awake.

A spreading oak tree stood–as it had for at least a hundred years, actually–at the crossroads outside the village of Koprzywnica, beyond the ruins of the burnt-down inn. Now, in the spring, it was laden with tiny buds of blossom. People from the whole region, even the remote Spalla, were accustomed to using the huge and quite low boughs of the oak to hang up slats and boards bearing all sorts of information. For that reason, the oak tree that served for communication between people was called the Tree of Tidings of Good and Evil.

‘Ciri, start on that side,’ ordered Geralt, dismounting. ‘Dandelion, have a look on this side.’

The planks on the boughs swayed in the wind, clattering against each other.

Searches for missing and separated families usually dominated after a war. There were plenty of declarations of the following kind: COME BACK, I FORGIVE YOU, plenty of offers of erotic massage and similar services in the neighbouring towns and villages, and plenty of announcements and advertisements. There were love letters, there were denunciations signed by well-meaning people, and poison pen letters. There were also boards expressing the philosophical views of their authors–the vast majority of them moronically nonsensical or repulsively obscene.

‘Ha!’ called Dandelion. ‘A witcher is urgently sought in Rastburg Castle. They write that good pay, luxurious accommodation and extraordinarily tasty board are guaranteed. Will you avail yourself of it, Geralt?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Ciri found the information they were looking for.

And then announced to the Witcher what he had been expecting for a long time.

‘I’m going to Vengerberg, Geralt,’ she repeated. ‘Don’t make faces like that. You know I have to, don’t you? Yennefer’s summoned me. She’s waiting for me there.’