“You’ve exaggerated a bit with the entertainment and art.”

“And booze, what’s that made of?”

“I get it.”

“Not very much, you don’t. Learn. Look at those purple flowers. They’re lupins.”

“They’s be vetch, to be true,” interrupted Nettly. “Have ye nae seen lupins, or what? But ye have hit exact with one thing, sir. Everything seeds mightily here, and grows as to make the heart sing. That be why ‘tis called the Valley of Flowers. That be why our forefathers settled here, first ridding the land of the elves.”

“The Valley of Flowers, that’s Dol Blathanna.” Dandilion nudged the witcher, who was stretched out on the straw, with his elbow. “You paying attention? The elves have gone but their name remains. Lack of imagination. And how do you get on with the elves here, dear host? You’ve got them in the mountains across the path, after all.”

“We nae mix with each other. Each to his own.”

“The best solution,” said the poet. “Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

The witcher didn’t reply.

II

“Thank you for the spread.” Geralt licked the bone spoon clean and dropped it into the empty bowl. “A hundred thanks, dear host. And now, if you permit, we’ll get down to business.”

“Well, that we can,” agreed Nettly. “What say ye, Dhun?”

Dhun, the elder of Lower Posada, a huge man with a gloomy expression, nodded to the girls who swiftly removed the dishes from the table and left the room, to the obvious regret of Dandilion who had been grinning at them ever since the feast began, and making them giggle at his gross jokes.

“I’m listening,” said Geralt, looking at the window from where the rapping of an axe and the sound of a saw drifted. Some sort of woodwork was going on in the yard and the sharp, resinous smell was penetrating the room. “Tell me how I can be of use to you.”

Nettly glanced at Dhun.

The elder of the village nodded and cleared his throat. “Well, it be like this,” he said. “There be this field hereabouts—”

Geralt kicked Dandilion—who was preparing to make a spiteful comment—under the table.

“—a field,” continued Dhun. “Be I right, Nettly? A long time, that field there, it lay fallow, but we set it to the plough and now, ‘tis on it we sow hemp, hops and flax. It be a grand piece of field, I tell ye. Stretches right up to the forest—”

“And what?” The poet couldn’t help himself. “What’s on that field there?”

“Well.” Dhun raised his head and scratched himself behind the ear. “Well, there be a deovel prowls there.”

“What?” snorted Dandilion. “A what?”

“I tell ye: a deovel.”

“What deovel?”

“What can he be? A deovel and that be it.”

“Devils don’t exist!”

“Don’t interrupt, Dandilion,” said Geralt in a calm voice. “And go on, honorable Dhun.”

“I tell ye: it’s a deovel.”

“I heard you.” Geralt could be incredibly patient when he chose. “Tell me, what does he look like, where did he come from, how does he bother you? One thing at a time, if you please.”