“Danamebi,” muttered Dandilion. “Dana Meadbh, the Lady of the Fields.”

“ ‘Whence Lyfia treads the earth blossometh and bringeth forth, and abundantly doth each creature breed, such is her might. All nations to her offer sacrifice of harvest in vain hope their field not another’s will by Lyfia visited be. Because it is also said that there cometh a day at end when Lyfia will come to settle among that tribe which above all others will rise, but these be mere womenfolk tales. Because, forsooth, the wise do say that Lyfia loveth but One land and that which groweth on it and liveth alike, with no difference, be it the smallest of common apple trees or the most wretched of insects, and all nations are no more to her than that thinnest of trees because, forsooth, they too will be gone and new, different tribes will follow. But Lyfia eternal is, was and ever shall be until the end of time.’ ”

“Until the end of time!” sang the troubadour and strummed his lute. Torque joined in with a high trill on his reed pipes. “Hail, Lady of the Fields! For the harvest, for the flowers in Dol Blathanna, but also for the hide of the undersigned, which you saved from being riddled with arrows. Do you know what? I’m going to tell you something.” He stopped playing, hugged the lute like a child and grew sad. “I don’t think I’ll mention the elves and the difficulties they’ve got to struggle with, in the ballad. There’d be no shortage of scum wanting to go into the mountains… Why hasten the—” The troubadour grew silent.

“Go on, finish,” said Torque bitterly. “You wanted to say: hasten what can’t be avoided. The inevitable.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” interrupted Geralt. “Why talk about it? Words aren’t necessary. Follow Lille’s example.”

“She spoke to the elf telepathically,” muttered the bard. “I sensed it. I’m right, aren’t I, Geralt? After all, you can sense communication like that. Did you understand what… what she was getting across to the elf?”

“Some of it.”

“What was she talking about?”

“Hope. That things renew themselves, and won’t stop doing so.”

“Is that all?”

“That was enough.”

“Hmm… Geralt? Lille lives in the village, among people Do you think that—”

“—that she’ll stay with them? Here, in Dol Blathanna? Maybe. If…”

“If what?”

“If people prove worthy of it. If the edge of the world remains the edge of the world. If we respect the boundaries. But enough of this talk, boys. Time to sleep.”

“True. It’s nearly midnight; the fire’s burning out. I’ll sit up for a little while yet. I’ve always found it easiest to invent rhymes beside a dying fire. And I need a title for my ballad. A nice title.”

“Maybe The Edge of the World?”

“Banal,” snorted the poet. “Even if it really is the edge, it’s got to be described differently. Metaphorically. I take it you know what a metaphor is, Geralt? Hmm… Let me think…‘Where…’ Bloody hell. ‘Where—’ ”