“I’m Chireadan,” the taller of the elves, with an expressive face, introduced himself. As was usual with representatives of the Old People, it was difficult to guess his age; he could have been twenty or one hundred and twenty. “This is my cousin Errdil. And this nobleman is the knight Vratimir.”

“A nobleman,” muttered Geralt, but a closer look at the coat of arms embroidered on his tunic shattered his hopes: a shield divided per cross and bearing golden lilies was cut diagonally by a silver bar. Vratimir was not only illegitimate but came from a mixed, human-nonhuman union. As a result, although he was entitled to use a coat of arms, he couldn’t consider himself a true nobleman, and the privilege of crossing the city gate after dusk most certainly wasn’t extended to him.

“Unfortunately”—the witcher’s scrutiny did not escape the elf’s attention—“we, too, have to remain here until dawn. The law knows no exceptions, at least not for the likes of us. We invite you to join our company, sir knight.”

“Geralt, of Rivia” the witcher introduced himself. “A witcher, not a knight.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Chireadan indicated Dandilion, whom the guards had laid on a pallet in the meantime. “It looks like poisoning. If it is poisoning, then I can help. I’ve got some good medicine with me.”

Geralt sat down, then quickly gave a guarded account of events at the river. The elves looked at each other, and the knight spat through his teeth and frowned.

“Extraordinary,” Chireadan remarked. “What could it have been?”

“A djinn in a bottle,” muttered Vratimir. “Like a fairy tale—”

“Not quite.” Geralt indicated Dandilion, curled up on the pallet. “I don’t know of any fairy tale that ends like this.”

“That poor fellow’s injuries,” said Chireadan, “are evidently of a magical nature. I fear that my medicine will not be of much use. But I can at least lessen his suffering. Have you already given him a remedy, Geralt?”

“A painkilling elixir.”

“Come and help me. You can hold his head up.”

Dandilion greedily drank the medicine, diluted with wine, choked on his last sip, wheezed and covered the leather pillow with spittle.

“I know him,” Errdil said. “He’s Dandilion, the troubadour and poet. I saw him singing at the court of King Ethain in Cidaris once.”

“A troubadour,” repeated Chireadan, looking at Geralt. “That’s bad. Very bad. The muscles of his neck and throat are attacked. Changes in his vocal cords are starting to take place. The spell’s action has to be halted as soon as possible otherwise… This might be irreversible.”

“That means… Does that mean he won’t be able to talk?”

“Talk, yes. Maybe. Not sing.”

Geralt sat down at the table without saying a word and rested his forehead on his clenched fists.

“A wizard,” said Vratimir. “A magical remedy or a curative spell is needed. You have to take him to some other town, witcher.”

“What?” Geralt raised his head. “And here, in Rinde? Isn’t there a wizard here?”