He remained silent. Yennefer was standing in front of him, smiling and fiddling with the obsidian star sparkling with diamonds pinned to her velvet ribbon.

“I already knew what you were like,” she continued, “after exchanging a few words with you in Beau’s bedroom. And I knew what form of payment I’d demand from you. My accounts in Rinde could be settled by anyone, including Chireadan. But you’re the one who’s going to do it because you have to pay me. For your insolence, for the cold way you look at me, for the eyes which fish for every detail, for your stony face and sarcastic tone of voice. For thinking that you could stand face-to-face with Yennefer of Vergerberg and believe her to be full of self-admiration and arrogance, a calculating witch, while staring at her soapy tits. Pay up, Geralt of Rivia!”

She grabbed his hair with both hands and kissed him violently on the lips, sinking her teeth into them like a vampire. The medallion on his neck quivered and it felt to Geralt as if the chain was shrinking and strangling him. Something blazed in his head while a terrible humming filled his ears. He stopped seeing the sorceress’s violet eyes and fell into darkness.

He was kneeling. Yennefer was talking to him in a gentle, soft voice.

“You remember?”

“Yes, my lady.” It was his own voice.

“So go and carry out my instructions.”

“At your command, my lady.”

“You may kiss my hand.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

He felt himself approach her on his knees. Ten thousand bees buzzed in his head. Her hand smelt of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries… Lilac and gooseberries… A flash. Darkness.

A balustrade, stairs. Chireadan’s face.

“Geralt! What’s the matter with you? Geralt, where are you going?”

“I have to…” His own voice. “I have to go—”

“Oh, gods! Look at his eyes!”

Vratimir’s face, contorted with horror. Errdil’s face. And Chireadan’s voice.

“No! Errdil! Don’t touch him! Don’t try to stop him! Out of his way—get out of his way!”

The scent of lilac and gooseberries. Lilac and gooseberries…

A door. The explosion of sunlight. It’s hot. Humid. The scent of lilac and gooseberries. There’s going to be a storm, he thought.

And that was his last thought.

VI

Darkness. The scent…

Scent? No, smell. Stench of urine, rotten straw and wet rags. The stink of a smoldering torch stuck into an iron grip set in a wall of uneven stone blocks. A shadow thrown by the light of the torch, a shadow on the dirt floor—the shadow of a grille.

The witcher cursed.

“At last.” He felt someone lift him up, rest his back against the damp wall. “I was beginning to worry, you didn’t regain consciousness for so long.”

“Chireadan? Where—dammit, my head’s splitting—where are we?”

“Where do you think?”

Geralt wiped his face and looked around. Three rogues were sitting by the opposite wall. He couldn’t see them clearly; they were sitting as far from the torch light as possible, in near complete darkness. Something which looked like a heap of rags crouched under the grille which separated them from the lit corridor. It was, in fact, a thin old man with a nose like a stork’s beak. The length of his matted stringy hair and the state of his clothes showed that he hadn’t arrived yesterday.