“Time will tell who was right,” said the elf quietly. “And herein lies the advantage of longevity. I’ve got a chance of finding out, if only because of that stolen handful of grain. You won’t have a chance like that. You’ll die shortly.”

“Spare him, at least.” Geralt indicated Dandilion with his head. “No, not out of lofty mercy. Out of common sense. Nobody’s going to ask after me, but they are going to take revenge for him.”

“You judge my common sense poorly,” the elf said after some hesitation. “If he survives thanks to you, he’ll undoubtedly feel obliged to avenge you.”

“You can be sure of that!” Dandilion burst out, pale as death. “You can be sure, you son of a bitch. Kill me too, because I promise otherwise I’ll set the world against you. You’ll see what lice from a fur coat can do! We’ll finish you off even if we have to level those mountains of yours to the ground! You can be sure of that!”

“How stupid you are, Dandilion,” sighed the witcher.

“Your mother gives birth to you only once and only once do you die,” said the poet haughtily, the effect somewhat spoiled by his teeth rattling like castanets.

“That settles it.” Filavandrel took his gloves from his belt and pulled them on. “It’s time to end this.”

At his command, the elves positioned themselves opposite Geralt and Dandilion with bows. They did it quickly; they’d obviously been waiting for this a long time. One of them, the witcher noticed, was still chewing a turnip. Toruviel, her mouth and nose bandaged with cloth and birch bark, stood next to the archers. Without a bow.

“Shall I bind your eyes?” asked Filavandrel.

“Go away.” The witcher turned his head. “Go—”

“A d’yeable aep arse,” Dandilion finished for him, his teeth chattering.

“Oh, no!” the sylvan suddenly bleated, running up and sheltering the condemned men with his body. “Have you lost your mind? Filavandrel! This is not what we agreed! Not this! You were supposed to take them up to the mountains, hold them somewhere in some cave, until we’d finished—”

“Torque,” said the elf, “I can’t. I can’t risk it. Did you see what he did to Toruviel while tied up? I can’t risk it.”

“I don’t care what you can or can’t! What do you imagine? You think I’ll let you murder them? Here, on my land? Right next to my hamlet? You accursed idiots! Get out of here with your bows or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!”

“Torque.” Filavandrel rested his hands on his belt. “This is necessary.”

“Duvvelsheyss, not necessary!”

“Move aside, Torque.”

The sylvan shook his ears, bleated even louder, stared and bent his elbow in an abusive gesture popular among dwarves.

“You’re not going to murder anybody here! Get on your horses and out into the mountains, beyond the passes! Otherwise you’ll have to kill me too!”

“Be reasonable,” said the white-haired elf slowly. “If we let them live, people are going to learn what you’re doing. They’ll catch you and torture you. You know what they’re like, after all.”