“Great,” said Geralt finally, and cursed vilely. “Not only will I hang, but I’ll do so with the knowledge that I’m the cause of your death, Chireadan. And Dandilion’s, too, no doubt. No, don’t interrupt. I know it’s Yennefer’s prank, but I’m the guilty one. It’s my foolishness. She deceived me, took the piss out of me, as the dwarves say.”

“Hmm…” muttered the elf. “Nothing to add, nothing to take away. I warned you against her. Dammit, I warned you, and I turned out to be just as big an—pardon the word—idiot. You’re worried that I’m here because of you, but it’s quite the opposite. You’re locked up because of me. I could have stopped you in the street, overpowered you, not allowed—But I didn’t. Because I was afraid that when the spell she’d cast on you had dispelled, you’d go back and… harm her. Forgive me.”

“I forgive you, because you’ve no idea how strong that spell was. My dear elf, I can break an ordinary spell within a few minutes and I don’t faint while doing it. You wouldn’t have managed to break Yennefer’s spell and you would have had difficulty overpowering me. Remember the guards.”

“I wasn’t thinking about you. I repeat: I was thinking about her.”

“Chireadan?”

“Yes?”

“Do you… Do you—”

“I don’t like grand words,” interrupted the elf, smiling sadly. “I’m greatly, shall we say, fascinated by her. No doubt you’re surprised that anyone could be fascinated by her?”

Geralt closed his eyes to recall an image which, without using grand words, fascinated him inexplicably.

“No, Chireadan,” he said. “I’m not surprised.”

Heavy steps sounded in the corridor, and a clang of metal. The dungeon was filled with the shadows of four guards. A key grated. The innocent old man leapt away from the bars like a lynx and hid among the criminals.

“So soon?” the elf, surprised, half-whispered. “I thought it would take longer to build the scaffold…”

One of the guards, a tall, strapping fellow, bald as a knee, his mug covered with bristles like a boar, pointed at the witcher.

“That one,” he said briefly.

Two others grabbed Geralt, hauled him up and pressed him against the wall. The thieves squeezed into their corner; the long-nosed granddad buried himself in the straw. Chireadan wanted to jump up, but he fell to the dirt floor, retreating from the short sword pointed at his chest.

The bald guard stood in front of the witcher, pulled his sleeves up and rubbed his fist.

“Councilor Laurelnose,” he said, “told me to ask if you’re enjoying our little dungeon. Perhaps there’s something you need? Perhaps the chill is getting to you? Eh?”

Geralt did not answer. Nor could he kick the bald man, as the guards who restrained him were standing on his feet in their heavy boots.

The bald man took a short swing and punched the witcher in the stomach. It didn’t help to tense his muscles in defense. Geralt, catching his breath with an effort, looked at the buckle of his own belt for a while; then the guards “hauled him up again.