“I do,” bleated the sylvan still sheltering Geralt and Dandilion. “It turns out I know them better than I know you! And, verily, I don’t know who to side with. I regret allying myself with you, Filavandrel!”

“You wanted to,” said the elf coldly, giving a signal to the archers. “You wanted to, Torque. L’sparellean! Evellienn!”

The elves drew arrows from their quivers. “Go away, Torque,” said Geralt, gritting his teeth. “It’s senseless. Get aside.” The sylvan, without budging from the spot, showed him the dwarves’ gesture.

“I can hear… music…” Dandilion suddenly sobbed.

“It happens,” said the witcher, looking at the arrowheads. “Don’t worry. There’s no shame in fear.”

Filavandrel’s face changed, screwed up in a strange grimace. The white-haired Seidhe suddenly turned round and gave a shout to the archers. They lowered their weapons.

Lille entered the glade.

She was no longer a skinny peasant girl in a sackcloth dress. Through the grasses covering the glade walked—no, not walked—floated a queen, radiant, golden-haired, fiery-eyed, ravishing. The Queen of the Fields, decorated with garlands of flowers, ears of corn, bunches of herbs.

At her left-hand side, a young stag pattered on stiff legs, at her right rustled an enormous hedgehog.

“Dana Meadbh,” said Filavandrel with veneration. And then bowed and knelt.

The remaining elves also knelt; slowly, reluctantly, they fell to their knees one after the other and bowed their heads low in veneration. Toruviel was the last to kneel.

“Hael, Dana Meadbh,” repeated Filavandrel.

Lille didn’t answer. She stopped several paces short of the elf and swept her blue eyes over Dandilion and Geralt. Torque, while bowing, started cutting through the knots. None of the Seidhe moved.

Lille stood in front of Filavandrel. She didn’t say anything, didn’t make the slightest sound, but the witcher saw the changes on the elf’s face, sensed the aura surrounding them and was in no doubt they were communicating. The devil suddenly pulled at his sleeve.

“Your friend,” he bleated quietly, “has decided to faint. Right on time. What shall we do?”

“Slap him across the face a couple of times.”

“With pleasure.”

Filavandrel got up from his knees. At his command, the elves fell to saddling the horses as quick as lightning.

“Come with us, Dana Meadbh,” said the white-haired elf. “We need you. Don’t abandon us, Eternal One. Don’t deprive us of your love. We’ll die without it.”

Lille slowly shook her head and indicated east, the direction of the mountains. The elf bowed, crumpling the ornate reins of his white-maned mount in his hands.

Dandilion walked up, pale and dumbfounded, supported by the sylvan. Lille looked at him and smiled. She looked into the witcher’s eyes. She looked long. She didn’t say a word. Words weren’t necessary.

Most of the elves were already in their saddles when Filavandrel and Toruviel approached. Geralt looked into the elf’s black eyes, visible above the bandages.

“Toruviel…” he said. And didn’t finish.

The elf nodded. From her saddlebow, she took a lute, a marvelous instrument of light, tastefully inlaid wood with a slender, engraved neck. Without a word, she handed the lute to Dandilion. The poet accepted the instrument and smiled. Also without a word, but his eyes said a great deal.