“So don’t waste time discussing it with such an unpleasant insect, elf,” said the witcher, barely able to control his voice. “I’m surprised you want to arouse a feeling of guilt and repentance in such a louse as me. You’re pitiful, Filavandrel. You’re embittered, hungry for revenge and conscious of your own powerlessness. Go on, thrust the sword into me. Revenge yourself on the whole human race. You’ll see what relief that’ll bring you. First kick me in the balls or the teeth, like Toruviel.”

Filavandrel turned his head.

“Toruviel is sick,” he said.

“I know that disease and its symptoms.” Geralt spat over his shoulder. “The treatment I gave her ought to help.”

“This conversation is senseless.” Filavandrel stepped away. “I’m sorry we’ve got to kill you. Revenge has nothing to do with it; it’s purely practical. Torque has to carry on with his task and no one can suspect who he’s doing it for. We can’t afford to go to war with you, and we won’t be taken in by trade and exchange. We’re not so naive that we don’t know your merchants are just outposts of your way of life. We know what follows them. And what sort of cohabitation they bring.”

“Elf,” Dandilion, who had remained silent until now, said quietly, “I’ve got friends. People who’ll pay ransom for us. In the form of provisions, if you like, or any form. Think about it. After all, those stolen seeds aren’t going to save you—”

“Nothing will save them anymore,” Geralt interrupted him. “Don’t grovel, Dandilion, don’t beg him. It’s pointless and pitiful.”

“For someone who has lived such a short time”—Filavandrel forced a smile—“you show an astounding disdain for death, human.”

“Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,” the witcher said calmly. “An appropriate philosophy for a louse, don’t you agree? And your longevity? I pity you, Filavandrel.”

The elf raised his eyebrows.

“Why?”

“You’re pathetic, with your little stolen sacks of seeds on pack horses, with your handful of grain, that tiny crumb thanks to which you plan to survive. And with that mission of yours which is supposed to turn your thoughts from imminent annihilation. Because you know this is the end. Nothing will sprout or yield crops on the plateau; nothing will save you now. But you live long, and you will live very long in arrogant isolation, fewer and fewer of you, growing weaker and weaker, more and more bitter. And you know what’ll happen then, Filavandrel. You know that desperate young men with the eyes of hundred-year-old men and withered, barren and sick girls like Toruviel will lead those who can still hold a sword and bow in their hands, down into the valleys. You’ll come down into the blossoming valleys to meet death, wanting to die honorably, in battle, and not in sickbeds of misery, where anemia, tuberculosis and scurvy will send you. Then, long-living Aen Seidhe, you’ll remember me. You’ll remember that I pitied you. And you’ll understand that I was right.”