Without a word, she pulled the instrument from the tall elf’s hand, forcefully smashed the lute against the pine and threw the remains, tangled in the strings, on Dandilion’s chest.

“Play on a cow’s horn, you savage, not a lute.”

The poet turned as white as death; his lips quivered. Geralt, feeling cold fury rising up somewhere within him, drew Toruviel’s eyes with his own.

“What are you staring at?” hissed the elf, leaning over. “Filthy ape-man! Do you want me to gouge out those insect eyes of yours?”

Her necklace hung down just above him. The witcher tensed, lunged, and caught the necklace in his teeth, tugging powerfully, curling his legs in and turning on his side.

Toruviel lost her balance and fell on top of him.

Geralt wriggled in the ropes like a fish, crushed the elf beneath him, tossed his head back with such force that the vertebrae in his neck cracked and, with all his might, butted her in the face with his forehead. Toruviel howled and struggled.

They pulled him off her brutally and, tugging at his clothes and hair, lifted him. One of them struck him; he felt rings cut the skin over his cheekbone and the forest danced and swam in front of his eyes. He saw Toruviel lurch to her knees, blood pouring from her nose and mouth. The elf wrenched the dagger from its sheath but gave a sob, hunched over, grasped her face and dropped her head between her knees.

The tall elf in the jacket adorned with colorful feathers took the dagger from her hand and approached the witcher. He smiled as he raised the blade. Geralt saw him through a red haze; blood from his forehead, which he’d cut against Toruviel’s teeth, poured into his eye sockets.

“No!” bleated Torque, running up to the elf and hanging on to his arm. “Don’t kill him! No!”

“Voe’rle, Vanadain,” a sonorous voice suddenly commanded. “Quess aen? Caelm, evellienn! Galarr!”

Geralt turned his head as far as the fist clutching his hair permitted.

The horse which had just reached the glade was as white as snow, its mane long, soft and silky as a woman’s hair. The hair of the rider sitting in the sumptuous saddle was identical in color, pulled back at the forehead by a bandana studded with sapphires.

Torque, bleating now and then, ran up to the horse, caught hold of the stirrup and showered the white-haired elf with a torrent of words. The Seidhe interrupted him with an authoritative gesture and jumped down from his saddle. He approached Toruviel, who was being supported by two elves, and carefully removed the bloodied handkerchief from her face. Toruviel gave a heartrending groan. The Seidhe shook his head and approached the witcher. His burning black eyes, shining like stars in his pale face, had dark rings beneath them, as if he had not slept for several nights in a row.

“You stink even when bound,” he said quietly in unaccented common tongue. “Like a basilisk. I’ll draw my conclusions from that.”