“Aren’t you exaggerating?” The witcher smiled. “I didn’t have such a bad impression of her. She likes to demonstrate her superiority, it’s true, but compared with other wizards, with that whole arrogant bunch, she’s walking charm and kindliness personified.”

Chireadan also smiled. “It’s almost as though you thought a scorpion were prettier than a spider,” he said, “because it’s got such a lovely tail. Be careful, Geralt. You’re not the first to have judged her like that without knowing she’s turned her charm and beauty into weapons. Weapons she uses skilfully and without scruple. Which, of course, doesn’t change the fact that she’s a fascinating and good-looking woman. You wouldn’t disagree, would you?”

Geralt glanced keenly at the elf. For a second time, he thought he saw traces of a blush on his face. It surprised him no less than Chireadan’s words. Pure-blooded elves were not wont to admire human women, even the very beautiful ones, and Yennefer, although attractive in her own way, couldn’t pass as a great beauty.

Each to their own taste but, in actual fact, not many would describe sorceresses as good-looking. Indeed, all of them came from social circles where the only fate for daughters would be marriage. Who would have thought of condemning their daughter to years of tedious studies and the tortures of somatic mutations if she could be given away in marriage and advantageously allied? Who wished to have a sorceress in their family? Despite the respect enjoyed by magicians, a sorceress’s family did not benefit from her in the least because by the time the girl had completed her education, nothing tied her to her family anymore—only brotherhood counted, to the exclusion of all else. So only daughters with no chance of finding a husband become sorceresses.

Unlike priestesses and druidesses, who only unwillingly took ugly or crippled girls, sorcerers took anyone who showed evidence of a predisposition. If the child passed the first years of training, magic entered into the equation—straightening and evening out legs, repairing bones which had badly knitted, patching harelips, removing scars, birthmarks and pox scars. The young sorceress would become attractive because the prestige of her profession demanded it. The result was pseudo-pretty women with the angry and cold eyes of ugly girls. Girls who couldn’t forget their ugliness had been covered by the mask of magic only for the prestige of their profession.

No, Geralt couldn’t understand Chireadan. His eyes, the eyes of a witcher, registered too many details.

“No, Chireadan,” he answered. “I wouldn’t disagree. Thank you for the warning. But this only concerns Dandilion. He suffered at my side, in my presence. I didn’t manage to save him and I couldn’t help him. I’d sit on a scorpion with my bare backside if I knew it would help him.”

“That’s precisely what you’ve got to beware of most.” The elf smiled enigmatically. “Because Yennefer knows it and she likes to make the most of such knowledge. Don’t trust her, Geralt. She’s dangerous.”

He didn’t answer.