Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. No, it wasn’t a dream. The devil and Galarr, whoever he was, were using the Old Language, the language of elves. But the words corn, beans, and oilseed were in the common tongue.

“And this? What’s this?” asked Galarr.

“Flaxseed. Flax, you know? You make shirts from flax. It’s much cheaper than silk, and more hardwearing. It’s quite a complicated process as far as I know but I’ll find out the ins and outs.”

“As long as it takes root, this flax of yours; as long as it doesn’t go to waste like the turnip,” grumbled Galarr, in the same strange Volapuk. “Try to get some new turnip seedlings, Torque.”

“Have no fear,” bleated the sylvan. “There’s no problem with that here. Everything grows like hell. I’ll get you some, don’t worry.”

“And one more thing,” said Galarr. “Finally find out what that three-field system of theirs is all about.”

The witcher carefully raised his head and tried to turn around.

“Geralt…” He heard a whisper. “Are you awake?”

“Dandilion…” he whispered back. “Where are we…? What’s happening?”

Dandilion only grunted quietly. Geralt had had enough. He cursed, tensed himself and turned on to his side.

In the middle of the glade stood the sylvan devil with—as he now knew—the sweet name of Torque. He was busy loading sacks, bags and packs on to the horses. He was being helped by a slim, tall man who could only be Galarr. The latter, hearing the witcher move, turned around. His hair was black with a distinct hint of dark blue. He had sharp features, big, bright eyes and pointed ears.

Galarr was an elf. An elf from the mountains. A pure-blooded Aen Seidhe, a representative of the Old People.

Galarr wasn’t alone. Six more sat at the edge of the glade. One was busy emptying Dandilion’s packs; another strummed the troubadour’s lute. The remainder, gathered around an untied sack, were greedily devouring turnips and raw carrots.

“Vanadain, Toruviel,” said Galarr, indicating the prisoners with a nod of his head. “Vedrai! Enn’le!”

Torque jumped up and bleated. “No, Galarr! No! Filavandrel has forbidden it! Have you forgotten?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten.” Galarr threw two tied sacks across the horse’s back. “But we have to check if they haven’t loosened the knots.”

“What do you want from us?” the troubadour moaned as one of the elves knocked him to the ground with his knee and checked the knots. “Why are you holding us prisoners? What do you want? I’m Dandilion, a poe—”

Geralt heard the sound of a blow. He turned around, twisted his head.

The elf standing over Dandilion had black eyes and raven hair, which fell luxuriantly over her shoulders, except for two thin plaits braided at her temples. She was wearing a short leather camisole over a loose shirt of green satin, and tight woollen leggings tucked into riding boots. Her hips were wrapped around with a colored shawl which reached halfway down her thighs.